In times like these, in places like that, we knew there was no going back.
Picasso came in the night, in our waking dreams, and painted our faces the color of running rainwater.
It was never meant to last, the way we tried to capture the guitars and the boys who played them.
In the dark, our mouths were full and satisfied. In the light, we starved.
There were so many spilled teacups all over our floors,
We cleaned nothing and left it all to rot in the sun.
It was better this way, we knew
In that time, in that world, we knew no other way.