So, when they come with flowers and place the already discoloured petals on your grave, tell them you never intended to bleed till you ran dry. //full poem in caption// How happy should I be? I can't go splashing about in the muddy rain water in the potholes I jump across everyday. I can sit across you and read your face, but known alphabets take up strange shadows when they press against the creases on your forehead. In the almost sinister fluorescent glow of the street lamp, love, can I really carve the path the satellites trace around the earth? In the almost faded paint and the rusted hinges of the house next door, can I unlock the emergency exit? How happy should I be, love, so that you don't have to barge in to save the day and save the planet from one more morose,self pitying vagabond? How happy should I be?
