My red T-shirt is not that red anymore
It wasn´t chlorine but the sunlight
I´m not eighteen and shutting the door
Quietly I try to crawl and hide
This blossom isn´t right anymore
At least doesn´t seem to be from my window
The garden that I made and adored
I´m admiring over my right elbow
My hand supports my thoughts
And the chin points forward
But is anatomic, not blaming
And I wrote on the clouded glass
My imagination in words
A beam of light shows the feeling