Like December mornings that wait,
desolate:
a future filled with unwritten things
wild and fluorescent like when we were young.
Youth is candied fruit and pressed flowers
inside of old notebooks
but the flowers have turned to dust, leaving
a sick taste inside your mouth
sticky and unforgiving.
Tired steps on asphalt, familiar smells,
rushed whispers and hushed secrets
parched, like lusting lovers.
I won't go back to love songs today
the threads are scattered,
blown away in dust and wind.
I wait
under the blissfully orange light of sodium lamps
washed and tainted
our skins salvaged and the world forgiven
haunted by the unfulfilled
and everything burnt in blue.