The toast begins to burn,
The old radio,
The one that is new to me since I stole it from you,
Crackles quietly in the background.

I try to mix summer fruits squash with lemonade,
It’s pleasant, but better simply with water.

The top of the stable door lays open,
A breeze comes through it and its cold,
I close the top of the stable door
And look out through the window to the garden.

I try to mix a vision of you into this world,
It doesn’t work, you don’t fit here.

Books lay lazily on their backs across the blue tablecloth
Itself lying lethargically upon the wooden table,
I pick one up to read, I soon give up,
The yellowing cover leaves a light stain upon my fingertips.

I try to mix myself into the world beyond this,
It doesn’t work, it’s pleasant enough, but simply better here, I don’t fit there,
Much the way that you no longer fit anywhere,
Except in the occasional crackle of the old stolen radio.