As we get older we start to lie
To ourselves, that little bit more;
The line between truth and falsehood
A long time ago I remember,
On a rooftop garden in Kensington,
Staring deep into my lover’s eyes.
We’d hook our legs across the edge
And bounce our feet along the brickwork
Picking frail moss from the cracks.
But not anymore.
I left her for the city,
For better or for worse,
But I sometimes still see her
Flitting through the corner of a dream.
Her black hair is wild in the midnight wind
And her face is broken porcelain
Glinting in the moonlight.