In seven ways I am heartbroken with every doting memory of summer gone. Bending the truth, those wildblue moonbeams. Devoted to you, this deep connection is the root of a silent birth. Praying in numbers. My voice is useless. God is a bastard. My eyes burn when I look at his sky. The grey orange of the asphalt is the only witness to the demise of my bones, the impulse driving me towards a clueless evening. You seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex. Fixing my hair in a lying mirror. This reality is a pseudo dream, a frame of night images departed. Every lapse is the static of a field recording. Every drop of venom is proof. Are we ever truly out of the woods, or are we gearing up for a soft landing? Defined by mistakes and decisions, I was wrong to think you cared. You never cared. You watched me when I was weak and fed from my internal tussle, every daily struggle. I swirl in the white sand of regret, the shuddering realisation that time is slipping into an airtight past, a tomb decorated with the roses of my bluelight. Ashen, so many days spent ill. So many days wondering in the still waters of the meadow by the wind farm. So many streets I forgot to explore, so many times I washed the linen just to launder my mind cupped in the frail hands of nostalgia, the embrace that hurts so bad. When the anguish comes to stay it haunts the whole bedroom and then the house. I had a dream I was sleeping on a cloud then I woke in a gooey blood pile to the disappointment I\'m sinking. Boneless and vacant. I pray for the people I remember, the odours I remember. The late nights driving home and the late nights I\'ve spent alone. I remember, I remember.