Memory… what a
quaint thing are you. Grave bars dance
slow sin tu. Malady…
Or, my sweet Malou?
Ni naranjas ni foto
sin tu. No puedo
Faire l’amour sin tu
My languish is horror ces jours
Languages of lone-
someness soothe. Among
those bereft of souvenirs,
I sing. Crash. For you.
A-
Mehtacritic 