Eighty.

My noise is black.
It stands out like a frown with babies in your arms.
A shoe untied and running with scissors.
Applesauce.
Understanding things we cannot help,
but hurt.
It is my opinion that love never dies.
We kill it again and again.
We may all be liars, but at least we know it.
I know it, he can see it and
you know that it is strange when I don't smile at a stranger.
I would hug you if I had arms but I'm afraid
I haven't got what you need.
They'll never be large enough to scratch your problems
or keep some empty cage in your chest full of hot air.
Just nasty words burning charcoal, my tongue.
You are a wounded animal and I've beeing running from you
too much as it is.
I'll have to kill it, and I've never killed a thing in my life.
Black noise; most like the color.
And applesauce.