Committed to the bed of a pickup truck, we wait for the world to turn out all the street lights. In the darkness of consequence, we dance to the chaos of Beethoven. I lend from your poems and throw stars directly into your eyes. When we stop moving (eventually) we'll lose our balance. We'll treat concrete like sugar-coated asphalt and versa vice. With alcohol and spice, and nothing so nice, the minute we stand up will never equal the hour we made love. Okay, I know what you're thinking now. I'm giving you too much credit.
I led you home and we talked about everything over the moon, except the cow. Eventually the conversation steered its way to the topic of the moon itself, and we sent out bitter postcards to the ocean's edge. I kissed you goodnight and we said we'd meet again. It's been almost thirty nights or maybe 19 days, and I just decided to drop the H and the E, and drop by to lend you this heart. All I can think about now is how this paragraph shouldn't be longer than the first one. Mission: accomplished.
You said you'd give me money and you didn't. Thank God for small miracles. I watch the world dry on the cusp of your lisp. We talked on the phone for hours about the old days, when we were both teenagers. I thought about how staring into the face of my twenties seemed like dying was a stone's throw away, but I didn't dare tell you and contaminate these beautiful memories of eons ago when we first fell in love. In all fairness, the trip north has tired us out. Everytime we talk, all I can think about is how much I miss you and your scent.
When I'm alone, I contemplate how unnecessarilly honest I am in poetry. And I wonder if anyone notices. Or cares.
