dagmar

when my hands were half their size
and the walls were white
i asked for a song called dagmar
and you sang
about men in love and cheap white wine
voice flattened by the night
even after i had closed my eyes
and your cigarette had burnt out

dagmar was my favourite one
my missing piece
a shelter from the rain
but the rain must have got too wet
for after months or maybe years
you never played again
dagmar walked away

and then i met her the other day
and asked her where she’s gone
and how she’s been
her eyes were no longer brown but grey
she only answered with her mouth
and heavy silence in between the words
that weren’t words at all
and the walls got some stains on them
while i’ve learnt to love the rain

sometimes
i can hear her hoarse and bitter hum
as the night gets long
and i turn around
and open every goddamn door
not knowing where it’s coming from
or how to recognise the song
or dagmar anymore

my hands are mine now
i can write my own songs
about dagmars
or danas
or judes
or joes
with my fingernails that look like yours

my hands are mine now
in a while, i haven’t seen the dagmar i once knew
but i still know her smell
drawn to the drunk
at the backseat of the bus
because he too smell
just like you