I can’t find you but between the sheets
It is agonising, it is paper, it is cotton
And all of that on fire
And I can’t find the mirror
If the mirror is to show me, me
I see portraits of a woman
Colourful, shiny, mischievous sometimes
Black-running-down-the-cheeks, eyes-flickering-like-dying-stars,
Sometimes
The portraits live on
They carry the girl who is growing tall
They carry the sea of her mind
Creases vanishing to let you see
The illusion of what you mean to me
But here it is, the underneath
Let’s go back to the sheets
I can’t find you, and in these dreams
Natational, unbecoming, terrifyingly free
I will sleep, I will suffocate in my slumber:
Me
Is here, resting
My thrilled fingers playing with each other
A hat, a knife, all that I need
Strange how mirrors never find me.