The taste you leave on my tongue is something like cola and cough syrup.
Not unpleasant but sticky sweet.  Sickly.
I’ve been stretched so far it’s hard to think clearly.  Pink eraser shavings on lined paper.
Over and over again.
Try to make the days golden again.
But they’re singing so softly it’s hard to hear them.
And the nights only make up for it in that lonely backwards way. 
Sheets and skin and sweat only count for so much.
I’m left watching the sunrise, searching for the truth.