The Radio in the bedroom next to where I'm sitting at the moment just played your favourite song. I could hear it so clearly that I wished it wasn't so achingly good to ears.
Should I feel good that I heard that song after ages (not listened to it) or bad that it reminded of you?
It reminded of a thousand things that you perhaps were. It covered a distance and became enveloped in your voice, the way it might have sounded if you'd sung it.
The song was a black and white coloured, at times fading, short-film of how you were, overly nice. And how the chorus might have been ruled by the melody of your smile.
All the epiphanies can, tonight, make a way for me to go in a wonderland and become Alice for a while. But, old friend, I've grown up too quickly to let it happen just like that. Because there are these rough wooden trees at the very entrance, more than happy to tell me your whereabouts. You've changed the lane where you once lived and you don't live with the same flavour as before.
I was too young, remember?
Alice is too good for me to become, I am happy with my messy little heart.
Overly nice is what flowers are meant to be, darling. It took me long to know you were a thorn.