Pictures of us
In the spring.
We were so young.
Are we still, are we still
Scattered around on the ground, in the heaped
dry leaves?
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
Pictures of us
On the beach.
Technicolor scars
And the thing would smudge your eyes away.
‘Kay, it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
You’ll mark yourself
And be depressed