this is the story of the girl who could drink only tears

Where's the percentage in wishful thinking?
Rain in the doorway and a night
of drinking

with the falling patter on a dirty cup left
outside, nothing astonishing blazed across its side,
just an old advert
for an old chocolate bar
in faded type.

Dinner etiquette,
a two headed boy with a flittering fastening shyness
flowing round him, slicing through the
silence in the room, with no shadow anymore - just a bear
and his loss.

Devestating derivative ditties which the big bad beautiful you
have created in a room just for two.
Cold eyes baby, and there's
a saxophone solo playing just for you,
with a cup full of dregs and a bed full of
thoughts of

transistions
of us from our past to our memories.
How strange it is to be a stranger to you,
no longer sounding the only alarm that you sleep for.
The midnight sun hides all your hopes.