Day to day.

The postman aborts his load,    
the infatuation keeps me where I am,    
on my feet, staring out the window - a direct following.    
   
Hope is only ever in the mind,    
in the hazy hookah bar behind clean cynicism and sanity.    
Hope forms the crisp, white linen we lay out when we start something.    
   
Try a little white to get rid of the red stain you've     
left, with her lipstick and her eyes and her hair and the way she smiled and smelt and whether she grasped and bit the pillow the way I did.    
I wonder whether she was enthusiastic. Just focus on the postman.    
   
I'm tipped the right way of wrong, son, the hard side of soft, the inside out of the pillow case    
where her pre-cum still lingers. I swing back and forth on the pendulum like your fool, trying to make a new start.    
I play in this 'Crazy house', seeking ways to make you love me more.    
   
I shade these colourless pictures in, anything to convince you to show    
a little more affection. Fool that is me, I'm still mesmerized, only ever half-sober, staring, a ghost of my former self, at a postman    
who aborts his smudged-print load in my hands and knows how weak I am.