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When you were young, your house was cold and beaten and full of blues. Mourners trailed through, leaving behind watery handshakes and little pools of rain. The room next to yours was preserved like a time capsule, but yours had windmills on the walls.
When I was young, I was near mute. Dad, drunk, is convinced of a smell of vinegar from behind the fridge. My mother, with limited patience, but more than could be expected, explains that he's mistaken. The argument gains ferocity during the piss-bubbled evening. Dad, the rocket-fuelled instigator, would pay for his noxious houseclouds. Shame, the wallpaper of my life.
When we were young, we built a secret tower of flesh-flavoured empathy. Your hips rose, stretching the confines of your drum-tight skin. Your chest shook with beating blood. Smelling of cherry blossoms, strands of your black hair stuck to my lips and my hands nestled in the notches of your spine. Tears battled their way down your slender neck but perished between our pressing skin. Your chest shook with beating blood, and all I could see was windmills on the walls.
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