seven times three

I dream inbetween the
    c r  a c k s  of concrete sidewalk;
breathing in pollution and singing my way down
        the transit lines---
x  your hand's in mine as we walk through hollow streets

  {time's on hold for the next 7 7 7 seconds;
        and we tremble on r r r epeat
repeat____}

sometimes I see the brilliancy of street shows in your eyes,
      and a little bit of that pretty face screams classic-
my hips rush further, and my eyes turn plastic
  under that gaze.

the way your body wanders is placed under
      a conspicuous ha.-ze; streetlights fill the skyline and
  this city life is glowing in a maze of mixing colors
which I can't seem to seperate through the wing feathers
    that hold me down.

the nightlife has it's upsides;
and the ways your eyes shift onto mine takes
    brilliancy to a whole new level;
soft whimpers and stargrinds fill their way into
          parked cars, and the constant glancing at blinking time
in broken clocks.

  I've heard it called glamorous;
      but improper grammar turns the most simple sentences
unecessarily complex throughout a lack of words;
  and an excess of thoughts.

your heart beats double under curious fingertips;
    tracing scars into your skin and
spilling a thousand stanzas into your mouth;
        hoping you'll swallow a small amount of our misery,
 



    digest it,
     

        and never hear of it again.

I lost myself inside of the stammers of voices and
  the constant ringing in my head and otherwise;
interrupting my solitary confinement with reminders of
      stress and development to the guilt I was becoming a prisoner to;
      the injections of medication that I was dripping into you

                    and you drip into me
    like bloodlust and cracking trust.

        our surroundings are cloudy
and no light could get through,
  aside from light that shined in my eyes while I
let myself fall into you-
      and tried to let go of my memories.

  your evidence is apparent,
        with stains on crumpled up letters,
          though no one can tell whether
    words or pictoral sanctuaries graced it's temporary stardom.

  sometimes I think I dreamed you up;
and those memories are little more than REM dazes
    set up to caffeinate my brain into a fairy tale
        in an IMAX theatre;

    a tattered script and a firework kiss.




You lack the storyline,

  but baby, you had the climax.