Misplaced

After a year, everything seems still to be misplaced.
Like a carton of white milk outside the refrigerator, a Vogue subscription form lying wet on the bathroom, a camera inside the wardrobe, books under the table, dolls upside down, keyboard near the empty wrapper of instant cappuccino. Broken sofa on the crowded street.

Your messages, dated almost a year ago.
I still have them completely. Like stamps of dead philatelist but also like lyric of an instrumental song.
Your face, his face, my fate.

My little heart.

After a year, everything seems still to be misplaced.

Song Looping Song. Another Song Looping Another Song.

Hey there, Patrick
I’m looping the song

You might not know, Patrick
How wrong everything has been
How long I have mourned
How many times I’ve been looping

The song of you
About her
The song of me
About you

But you might know, Patrick
Another song
That another girl next door
Has been looping

The song of you
About me
(The song of him
About her)