Your hands were like grasses that softened my eyes, as you stood on the building with your compass, and measured faces in the sky. And then my eyes were the people you designed, to measure faces in the sky, and slowly turn them blind. The people you designed you painted pink, against the fence. With words you turned them blind, and introduced me to silence. Painted pink against the fence, my limbs became threads you splintered. You introduced me to silence, then introduced me to winter. My limbs became threads you splintered off the avenue that built from smoke. So came and went winter, a full, hot white you couldn't choke. And off the avenue that built of smoke, there you lingered with your compass. The white hot gone, and now you choked upon your words, your hands, like grasses.