Passing traffic; Clocks slow because i
feel at ease in your innocent presence.
Glaring through my hair at paint that's now dry
on the surface, stained upon your skin.
Isn't it funny when you try to wash it
off but all it does is stick? It sinks in
quite well, doesn't it? After a while you wash it
off. Only now you find it surprising that
something you have grown so use to is gone.
Should you not feel happy and relieved? What
you once wanted no longer feels right. Gone
is the color that brightened up the day.
Changes made as things delay. I cant stay.
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