Wretched

Wretched is the landscape of our nomenclature

I have no father here
In this dark car,
With the shadows of rain drops
Running down my face,
My fingers running through your graying hair

There is only
A ghost of myself and how I used to be
And what I used to say and do.

And only you.

Wretched is the landscape of our nomenclature

So we don't speak.
Too many rules came pushing in,
Too much space between us
Only skin.
Only flesh.
Only sin.