I hear the echoes in my mind,

I ambivalent whenever I get them,

part of me runs towards them to embrace them,

and other runs to hide and casts them away.

What good are they, though?

We strangers are still,

friends no more.

I see it no longer,

your sun tattoo on you wrist,

or your boyish grin,

so I vain I rebel and do things neither of us liked,

for you see them not.

Pernicious it was, meeting you.

I would have gone on fine,

echoless and without any of those damned butterflies whenever you walked by.

But strangers we are now for from the get-go we had an expiration date,

 so what use is it?

My screaming on the mountain?

However will you hear it,

there on the plain?