She’s panic buying,
walking down the aisle that she feels identified in.
It’s number seven,
where the colour smears into photographs of heaven.
Don’t raise your voice if you’re talking to me.
We’re only Temporary.
She plays the numbers,
seconds hiss away until a day is just a flicker.
Her goddess slumbers,
waiting in her dream until the memory is quicker.
Don’t raise your hands it’s easy can’t you see.
We’re only temporary.