As the years go on your golden tongue withers like a rose. Choking on my teardrops the woods caress me. I fall into a happy dream, maybe I can find forgiveness.

Sunlight shines through my window, dust dancing in the light like fairies forlorn. The future is bright as I dance in the sun, not sure where I will go.

Smell of rain. Sunshine in red tree-tops. Last moments of summer drowning in cosy, rainy, foggy melancholy. Cold creeping into the bones, huddled up until the darkness is gone.

Raindrops are falling from the grey autumn skies, pounding against my window. Your tears warm my shoulder as we face the grey world in silent companionship.

I'm just a silly soul, watching the world through a veil, because I can't bear reality. And I know I'm not real, even in front of you I don't feel, I don't think, I'm just a bunch of pixels. And I know I'm losing strength, trying to hold onto some past dream, me against an army. And my reflection is distorted in my mirror: eyes too big, too much hot, salty water coming out of them; mouth too red, but not with the blood that filled my lungs; cheeks too hollow, result of endless nights spent trying. And I lost you and myself trying to keep us alive.

When did you get so good at hiding? Did you learn it like I did? Hiding yourself from scrutinising eyes, critical, watchful gazes, loose lips? How long has it been since you last cried? No one saw you, did they? Calm and cold, but that was just a mask, wasn't it?

Down the blue steps: the sunny afternoon, smell of fallen leaves, warming the pale and sickly skin. Down the blue steps: laughter in the distance, joy of a lingering summer reflected on the river surface. Down the blue steps: fresh, clean autumn air, warm walls of the city, like an embrace. Down the blue steps: oh, how I wish I could go down the blue steps.

The storm has ravished garbage cans full of junk food trash. The remains of Friday and Saturday night, combined, like tumbleweed on early Monday morning streets. The street lantern moon blinds, kills the soul, but mindlessly I carry on, softly treading the near-empty streets. Southern winds bring the smell of smoked bacon and of the foul river. And I drag on, street lantern to street lantern, like a moth at the end of night.