You will be the death of me.

When we walked the streets together, all the faces seemed to smile back; and now the pavements have nothing to offer and all the faces seem to need a slap. There's an unfamiliar grip, on an unfamiliar handkerchief; attending to the tears on cheeks I wouldn't notice with you, no matter how vicious the grief. Her expression was damp and crooked, grabs onto my throat and won't let go, won't let go, won't let go, won't let go. Save me from the secateurs, I'll pretend I didn't hear; can't you see I'm the ghost in the wrong coat?, biting butter and crumbs. There's a handsome maverick, you don't talk about to keep me calm; and I can't help but try create diversion, pulls you back onto her arm. Please don't tell me, you don't have to, darling, I can stand that she painted you a gushing sunset, and slayed their pink panthers in your defence. She stands separate and ever deadly, clings onto my throat and won't let go, won't let go, won't let go, won't let go. Save me from the secateurs, I'll pretend I didn't hear; can't you see I'm a ghost in the wrong coat?