The concrete's cold in Autumn.

If I could sleep any longer
I would probably die in the curve of your neck.
With the seasons blending backwards;
falling in the sun,
and waking as the snow picks up.

And it's like I've catapulted out of myself.

The way your words sink into the air
reminds me of the way ships sink
into the middle of nowhere.

Can you taste the way your
actions and words come together?
It's like a collision of puke and asphalt;
and I'm cracking my skull in it.


What did they call this before?
Noise.
Always answering a question
with a question and a peace sign.

Just noise.
Static energy that makes a sound,
but means nothing.



And he means everything
to a little pounding heart
that barely beats.

And a fluttering heart
that forgets to breathe
when he looks her way.



And the seasons?
They start to mean
nothing.

And your snapshots?
They're unmemorable.