The walls are white..
Or are they grey?
Hands, locked..
Up on the table, in sight..
Door locked and the fragrance
of a thousand dilemmas locked
within the four walls...
You move your hand up..
I reciprocate..
Can you see them marching?
The procession of the
mellifluous sinful thoughts?
I can hear a song playing
somewhere far..
Far but close enough..
The song that never fails to
bring out my darkest thoughts,
ever..

- The Cold air.