ISOLA

grass grows from the alarm clock. it's astounding, the sounds of five sets of eyes that could never understand why a ship is referred to as a 'she' just as well as i cannot put my finger quite on the outcome of the next year. i keep searching for you only to find that you are hiding underneath my skirts again, then falling into an inescapable bathtub of public enemies. shame on throwing your wallet into the fireplace but...forgiven, i suppose, if it is that that keeps you bleeding. and with the most enticing voice i've ever seen, you misplace your vowels and drag out your consonants at a rate which isn't decipherable. is it possible all the cheap vodka has gone to your head? is it possible that the portuguese pavement stifled your willingness to brave the storm without an umbrella? left filling the evenings with old music and miscalculated kissing makes me restless. whelmed. hammer to heart and enclosed in a glass case, the wait. everything intrigued us and thrilled us, alas together remain unmutually unenamoured. as i remove you from the pedestal, tangled nerves dangling from the moon sharpen our vision and carve an exit. the alarm clock needs trimming.