you smell like washing powder.

.

.

..

this is when i finally fall over that pile of old books you have on the floor there.

.

you know

the ones that smell like coffee?

.

if you'll let me

i'd like to never come back.

.

to fall

and just keep falling.

.

i'd like you to drive us somewhere

without a name.

.

we can sit on the bonnet of your car and smoke cigarettes

and take artsy photos of faceless strangers.

.

the strangers that wear ripped tights and knee high boots

and the ones that can't see us

- can't walk in a straight line.

.

and it can be one of those stories

that are written in one of those old books.

.

you can write the last line in black ink

across my wrist.

.

ally.