Walking through the cracks in the skyline
A concrete jungle, littered with landmines
Seared by sirens, our sunburst bubbles dripped
We sipped our vintage in a nebulous crypt
-Plip-
Through the Cicada symphony
Slowly paving monotony
As if with pain we could sweep the smog
Under the bed, into the cupboard
As if your tumbling halo would slice right through
The hunchbacked dinge of cigarette solitude
That is binge-drinking and boiling
That is toilet-flushing and toiling
-Clink-
As if it would cut right through
The bottle that you can't unscrew
As if it would make the familiar new
And illuminate the canvas you drew
-Drip-
The first, fat summer drop
Lush and starbitten, doesn't stop
It rolls of our eyelids like freshwater tears
Seconds, minutes, months, turning to years
So I refill my glass, smoothe creases from carpeted sighs
And ever-so-slowly breathe the world into my
Fume-burnt lungs, and make it whole again
Lingering I stand and never draw the rein
