Tobacco sits on the corner of a doctor’s mouth,
As he tells me I cannot go on like “this” (pointing,
quite frowningly, at his computer screen).
I see a message from a girl that i cannot touch
(In his mustache) and decide to nod rythmically.
Next week I’m in a guidance chair being asked:
“Who do you really identify the most with?”
I reply “a girl I cannot touch as long as I live”
And then chairs creak.
And then chairs creak.

Eventually she replies:
“Do you place this disablity of
wanting to be loved upon yourself?
Or do you feel it’s external?”,
Her university impression uncanny,
I sigh and show her a poem I wrote on my phone
Whilst in her company:

The Sun Is Only Half Asleep and I Miss You

The world’s distorted eye, fucked up on acid,
Begins to burst with blood;
There are crying thumbs/clean slates and crumbs-
But it doesnt matter. Days
Will pass as weekends,
And weekends will become dedicated to those lost,
Into rainy external desires.