Olivia

Here's the question why, on the house phone, behind a wired facade, you shed uncertain whispers, a hushed magenta tone, light yet sorely twisted, the reasons your like this, flush within my core, like rain across the isthmus, the colours of the Argentine, you say you've been honed, to numb away the pain, then a lovers' face again, no one really gets over, a desolate time in jail, blue to your bones, you spell out certain names, blow smoke off a cigarette, offer up a moan.