Tuesday
07/05/2015
I only speak vowels,
And you hum future tenses.
Twelve hours away, concrete underground.
There's a song stuck in the back of your head.
You have your knees toasted in the heat of Manhattan, and I have fried my elbows in the peak of local trails.
Rediscovering senses in the blooming heart of past lovers;
Tweaking sonnets and stitching contemporary treats.
None of their exhibits matches your staircase beats.
Estranged roles and Brooklyn roads.
My fingers are buried in your twisted curls.
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