i know so many men with brown eyes - none, none of this is adressed to you, my loves

The blanket crumbles like sand -
its pink where you once held my hand.

The squares are fading flowers,
or some such metaphor.

Do you believe in metaphors?

The power of words to transform us like angels -
 white wings and trumpets: Why all the fuss
for such a little thing, like death or sex, or your eyes,
 browner than mud -the color of shit, really.

"Ooh, so we've started cursing now."

Fuck you.