i like girls' bedrooms. they're intoxicating. always sweet-smelling and soft and clean. and they're always so.
bright.
even when they are empty they always seem filled. they're like extensions. they're not there, just so she has a place to sleep in when she's not out, a table to sit at, a window to look out of.

i am a toilet roll

you never could write better than i do, but
then again, not many people could,
(and it never was an issue, at least not for me anyway).
until i asked, what happened, curious like a cat, and you told me.
and for all my words, i didn't know what
to say.

i couldn't tell you that it was going to be ok,
because it really wasn't, and it was fucking cliche.
or that i understand,
that i know what he meant.
i couldn't tell you if there's anything i can do for you,
i would do, because that wouldn't be true.
or that he would have wanted to be strong,
not grieving the way you are, for as long
as you decide it.
i didn't want to tell you what i didn't know,
because, for god's sake, i know you have enough of those.

i didn't know him
(and i wouldn't be so arrogant to think that i did),
and never will, and so i said something stupid and wished you well
while your eyes and everything else told me more
than any words would tell me how you feel.
i made up my mind then, and so when it is all over
(but who am i trying to kid, it will never be over)
when we talk and laugh and smoke and eat and whatever that we do,
when you sit beside me like you did last night
at least for those hours with me, you wouldn't remember.

while i hope you heal, the way things like this never seem to do
and see the way you smile like a fish, the way you used to.

i wish i could say i would have wrote this for him,
but that would be a lie.
i wrote this for you, and you know it as well as i.