It was the blue. The eyes. The sky. The twilight. My name was on a ceiling, A mark left behind To be a speck of history Remembered. Bras were hanging from the ceiling Laughter, drunk, tired. What was the point if it All went up in smoke Washed away by time. His lips on my neck, exciting at first Then his tongue on mine It had felt wrong. The disgraceful taste of First the jaeger, then the mouthwash Mixed between my teeth and spat out. Deep down, I must have felt The cold judg
