by Sine Qua Non
Inside the bathroom, my head was filled with all sorts of lines and metaphors that would be part of poems I would dedicate to you which you will maybe never read. But now I sip my milk, battle with sleep and forget. Maybe the lines weren’t pretty enough to be remembered. Or maybe I need to sleep more than to write you a poem which, again, you probably will never read.
I fail you well. Good thing you’ll never find out.