She said everything written reminded her of everyone else except her

she thought every phrase was disrispectful

she thought she was in her way out

she stopped reading.

She said life is full of regrets

I heard, but disagreed

I saw her lips painted in different color scales, but never blue,

as she read out loud phrases out of magazines.

She liked me better drunk, cause alcohol washed away my words,

That's when I always told her how much I like her,

She liked me better when I smiled

but I'm human and we're sometimes sad or angry.

She loved my kisses, but cigarettes made dirt

and only the defeated kiss dirt,

and she's only starting her own battles against monoscopic industries.

I washed away regrets, and write for her about her,

in a singular idea of how love forms in ethereal bounds,

thin air will touch us when we want to,

and strong kisses went soft.

She sang funny melodies about destruction,

I climbed them in imaginary steps,

and atop of her musical mountain I screamed:

"you're the one that I love".