A peroxide blonde with blood-red lips,
So cool; like a feather.
She is quieter now than she’s ever been,
Like new sheets of paper.
Presses into me, and she tastes like gin
And a note unfamiliar.
That her heart still lives at Little Collins St,
High above all the terror.
But the calendar has whittled away.
There are piles of dead leaves in the entrance way
There’s a key that doesn’t fit anyway.
But it still feels like her job is to light the moon
Still stings like ever.
I’ve got piles of her paper that still bears
Her ink and sings her praises.
If you ever wander bye in the street
In the arms of other lovers who I couldn’t be,
If you ever turn a temperate thought to me…