Fitzrovia

Fitzrovia

I bought a pink lava lamp

which I leave on all night.

The same shade as your cheeks

the first time you dared to kiss.

 

I also got new bedsheets;

they are a flower sea.

The roses are your fingertips,

caressing the back of my ear.

 

On the wall next to my bed

I made a collage.

It’s all blue paysages

telling me about your eyes.

That is the closest I’ve ever been

to understand fine art.

 

You wouldn’t like my room;

you’d say it’s too full.

You’d say “out of past threads

one should never make a nest”.

But you see,

there is a lot of hidden space

those days you try to forget.

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