7-7-7 (Rewritten.)

The way your body wanders is placed under
a conspicuous haze;
streetlights fill the skyline,
and this city life is glowing in a maze of mixing colors--
which I can't seem to separate through the wing feathers holding me down.

The nightlife has it's upsides;
and the way 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 significant sentences
unnecessarily complex throughout a lack of words;
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 I was dripping into you.

. . . and you drip into me;
like bloodlust and cracking trust.

Our surroundings were cloudy;
and no light could get through,
save the light that shined in my eyes while I
let myself fall into you--
and tried to let go of my memory.

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

Sometimes I think I must have dreamed you up;
and these memories are little more than REM dazes--
but then I breathe,
only to realize you are the air that surrounds me.