80 kilometers is the limit here
beyond that point you're a
red wind shield
all the cars move faster than hell
and i'm walking to a small terrain

twenty three miles for your nearest place
but i'm stuck here for an empty face
no one is near here, not even the shade
and i'm writing more like a monk in a shell

all my writing is just the same
but is more likely that you don't get it first
all my mistakes are evident
and my big lie is getting there

i don't mind if i don't get a prize
but i like to die by your side
have breakfast in bed with
our little childs and watch tv
like a was a child

but now my face is against a wall
made of concrete and dead desires
you could be her, and make me a tea
or reappear and kill my fear

i was a page on your pink diary
you were a chapter in my blurred life
all i'm asking is a soul refund
will you kiss my needs or shut the door again?


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