tell me, years which one of us is tired
youth, a lock of hair on my forehead, don’t pull it out, please
I asked for no one’s permission and soon understood
love is already an ointment on my lips healing me if I can find it in myself
who else to lose to
but the wine glass in my hand?
father, if the heart won’t sober up
a blood blister grows within, my life stunned
this is a wound no doubt, without love
it crawls towards the heart, if it’s not stroked
I fell asleep at window ledges