Pictures of us

In the spring.

We were so young.

Are we still, are we still

Scattered around on the ground, in the heaped

dry leaves?


It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.


Pictures of us

On the beach.

Technicolor scars

And the thing would smudge your eyes away.


'Kay, it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.


You'll mark yourself

And be depressed