you of the lady grey burn a hole in my lip, a mark that is staying there, no matter how much i lick it. it matches with the rest of me, a series of marks that add up to a whole and we can count them, seventeen, seventeen wishes. the smell of the bitumen rises up with the rain and through this window, rises up with the carolling birds as they augment the end of day. it is dark already and looks no different, darker than it might have been, had we forgiven it. tomorrow all of this begins again and i wonder how it might be to forgive oneself, how that might feel and taste against the skin.