You're in the middle of the street, marking your territory on the cars that are running too quickly to ever catch full glimpse of, always going north when we're trying as hard as we can, just trying to go south. and i met her at a bar, or standing next to a bar--a railing really. everything was closing, because it was about the time when all the people who haven't had any sleep turn their lights off and try to die instead of live another night awake. and her hair was too blonde, but her roots were too long, and the nightlife was shining off her skin, which was sparkling the way authors try to describe with twenty six misspelled letters. and i was standing close enough to forget where my cell phone was. they were walking far enough away to tell only that the interactions as such could only cut the chord if a minute's worth of tequila had been added to the brownie mix and her nose ring hadn't been so silver and my tongue hadn't been so swollen after all.
they weren't stoned like i was stoned, and i knew you were watching me from a hundred miles away and she was dreaming me from a thousand miles away and i was dreaming of her watching me from next door with a cigarette precariously stacked on her film canisters, giving her the perfect light to shoot another thousand still frame shadows on the mixed up files of the cereal milk jugs and their significant others.
Closer and tinier and smaller and sweeter to the postal service trucks. Options and marxists and trash-bins full of the Wonder Years, making up a street called Menage a Trois just uptown from the avenue Fuck You Two? Fuck you too.
Polaroids are wallpapering my nosebleeds, but your bandages never soak it up
Smoke it up
Smoke up
Smoke
your lungs look too alive
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