Seduced by the promise of another doomed tomorrow, I hum the first tune which exploded from the tip of my forked tounge. One word at a time I heard the syllables die, each already regretting yesterday in the midst of her future lullabye. I savor the fragmented memories spiked with fingernail files and stray hair ribbons red because blood loves passion. I'm allowed to enter to her hearts discontent. She peeks reluctantly behind a sweaty palm with one angry eye the other in love. She won't stay long. She doesn't feel welcome. She is not. Our dance stagnates. My humming is now routine bound by ten years of tar-pit good intentions stuck at the knees locked and wordless in a time when the diving swallow found the ground.