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Description
The books don't call this perfection.
We aren't wise, or careful, or crafty
with our plans,
you take my meagre offerings while I live
by the intake of each successive breath.

Your dreams rise like skyscrapers in a
pulsating city,
lit up by the sheer intensity of ambition,
farther than my feeble eyes can reach.

But they're born out of ash,
the wreckage and rubble of the past—
nobody said dreaming was easy.

I exist on the ethereal wisps of time,
vaguely aware of something brighter
beyond my foggy reaches—
wondering if too many hours spent in your arms
could infuse my skin with sun, or inevitably,
burn.

We could be as brief as the cigarettes
dangling from our lips,
blue trails of smoke twisting and
curling into each other before
disappearing completely.

We're getting by with the heat
of knee touching knee, hip
curving side, and the taste of
whiskey-beer soaked lips.

Still stuck in a world where
the clock isn't ticking, just sneering—
asking us to feel a little more
so alarms can sound, barricades can drop,
floors can dissolve;
aspirin in a warm glass of water.