The passing car lights tremble as they splash through puddles And escape into the abyss of the night,
The tungsten light bulbs at the cafe glow beams encapsulated in glass like a museum exhibit frozen in time and space,
Your incandescent glare mixes with my anxiety and intoxication of awe, Your rose colored lips speak words that waltz in the air and push the wind that makes the seasons.
As if the sky had a mixing of colors from fallen shelves of paint that twirls and spatters, Leaving no horizon or break of clouds untouched to fully cover the shining sun.
I cry for being pulled by the end of two universes who both murmur lies and truths,
One I carry in my pocket and at the base of my uncombed hair,
The other immerses me in the sharp pinch of cold where my lungs fill with ice as I recite images,
It leaves me a thin shell resting where cold charred chimneys made of brick grow warm with crimson yellow flames in an abandoned house of clattering gears,
Where white doves perch high on beams that struggle to support themselves.
Her thoughts spoke of the shimmering moon mixing with the electric bolts that flew overhead and kept her awake in the hours of the night,
I am pulled by your soul, breaking through the swirled thick acrylics Like shattered glass, or a misty cloud,
Or my own self-built walls of isolation.