Pocketful of Pictures In the soft pink spring of blossoming flowers The pockets of my favourite jacket Which once belonged to you Were full of glossy polaroids with both of our most grotesque expressions In the raging heat of summer My pockets were still full of pictures In which however I was missing I could stay up till nocturnal hours that weren't at all a waste of time To admire pictures of you and your perfect body in the most ridiculous angles Then came the dwindling auburn leaves My pockets were not empty at least They contained pictures of the many places we would venture to That always captured their own sometimes lonely beauty No matter how plain they looked I never knew why I stopped taking those pictures of you Or of us But when the biting cold took over this town My pockets were never filled And I guess this was compensated by your presence Which started to become a rarity I don't know if the pleasure I got from the times I saw you was a blessing Or if my empty pockets were part of a curse