but when i remember it's in black and white. it's the pale lowblue of watching you walk away from the park bench, the blood red of wanting as you hand me a rose. the drunken punch of desperate sex edged in lust, the dark shadows that keep pulling at dreams your ghost haunts. there must be an old tough cord, a line that never broke or shattered, through punches and kisses and loving and leaving. i feel it honey.
it's killing me.