Your velvet soul touches my skinned up but not dying heart. Here you lie down, you lie down heavily on our castaway memories. Our thrown out greyness. It sways away from the finger pointing truth like that of a dagger being thrown at a spinning apple just missing it's vulnerable core. I am here like a homeless man with no place to go with my dirty laugh. My dusty way. I am skinned up on the inside. Deep. Where it steeps. This is where it was born in me. Here is where you were born in me. With this cold spun out needle. With this jagged broken mask. Here I sit smoking my nostalgia. There is nothing for me here exept the figures of smoke I create. I roam and dance around in this tornado of dissapointment. It is here where we still remain. I will clean this place with fresh bleach and boric acid. It will fizzle away at the aftermath of ours. It will clean away this bad taste. Leaving me only that in which it declares real. Real. The realness will remain in the shambles of dillusion. In the shadows of misery. I will sit with this ugly mask on and my cigarette of denial. Speaking the truth.