"i think putting grief into words
is hard,"
i tell the friend in coat, waiting for the train.
it's raining.
i squash the tuna fish sandwich in my hands,
white bread folding in on itself inside the plastic bag.
the friend does not answer,
but turns to smoke.
i wonder if this is how all of my friends went,
how all of my dreams read aloud.
and i'm not sure if i've quite woken up yet
but the sunshine hits my face as the tears hit the pillow.
shall i say how lonely it is?
— lunatic, part 1.