but I do believe in something better.
I think of her pretty tears
when I am on my last push-up.
I think of my fears
when I am fighting my way out a swamp.
Each slide of the wet mop;
each push of the broom.
If only Dragana lived here and loved me,
then maybe I could move on.
My fury is faster than bus fairs,
and there is no structured narrative.
I pray she remains;
I prey on wishes on everything.
Let's meet up for one night in July
and pretend we both believe in love.