Six-seven, Four-five

It’s been maybe six-seven years and you

still think I’m a naïve little girl? Your loss.

You should have seen me, really seen me

back then, instead of giving me words,

words, words to work with. Never enough.

They might have been, back then, but now

I need flesh, and I need soul, and I need thought.

I need feeling, not emotionless analysis.

I need sensation, not imagination.

I need shared breath and dancing.

And I need naiveté and a time machine, not you.

‘Cos four-five years ago, when I wasn’t naïve anymore,

I had a fountain, a boy with a bike, and a bus.

Seems I won’t ever have them again,

much as I try. I can’t have four-five years ago.


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