Our World Counts Decibels

On Monday nights and rainy days
dissecting vintage punk on stereotype walls,
inside I’m screaming Bowie and
the bruises of a winter
pit.

Second chances, third and seventh
glances strewn across a room fogged with
smoke too sweet. I don’t need a
hallucinogen to keep me sane, I don’t
need bitter brew to calm my
nerves. One touch would be just
fine, I’m slick and
salt.

I’d hover in the steam to greet
the streets we turned and
carried on our backs. One
flash will end our city
lives tonight. We’re meant
to run the west, chase down
the setting sky.

For twilight has fallen with
echo thud, and I can’t count
the hours. Today ticks by so
fast and colour doesn’t
stay, but something keeps
me waiting for the
birds again.

The tar stains so alive and
I could hold this smell
forever, ripped jeans and
our sneakers tracking
dirt and neon lights. The
lies we borrowed from a
hallmark card, the music
still refrains. I would not
change a thing.