We returned to that five room flat. Now it was empty and this the last time. There were blinking pictures. Of how we'd sit and chat. Some of them are scattered.
Drops in the faucet like a nervous heart. Beat on my porcelain sink a rhythm avant-garde. I page through the phone book, reach for my fountain pen. Is he comin' in for the holidays to haunt me again?.
The drops from the faucet like a nervous heart. Beat on my porcelain sink a rhythm avant-garde. I page through the phone book, reach for my fountain pen.