Levels

Under the strobe you are silent,

God I wish that was true,

that you could be a picture in a book, Perfect -

No,

messy in the gold light of the morning with sweat on your brow and a question -

No.

Not now when the music is high and there's life in your eyes,

I want a perfect stranger.

Be unavailable but wanting -

Yearn.

That way I don't have to earn the admiration I cannot deserve,

or fail to meet expectations or lose my nerve -

it's quiet.

Nothing but the reels and the rants,

stagnant,

dying by the seat of my pants,

with a fistful of hair and bile on my lips -

2000's hits in the background.

Did you hear R Kelly is a rapist?

Who knew?

But you -

you were perfect under the strobes and the heat of the night,

and these days 2am doesn't feel right,

but the mornings are calm and I -

I am...

A tax payer.

And i don't own six inch heels and I drive a sensible SUV and lament my fixation on reels -

But the music is still there,

under the retinol and oat milk,

running circles around my therapist,

pumping lust in to the kill zone of Monday morning,

while the beat plays -

Last call.

No more drinks to be had, I never knew you at all and in the taxi line I am oblivious...

and on the commute I am envious,

because the roads weren't taken and the line is drawn in chalk,

and you were perfect.

A mock turtle in the heating water,

never given a chance to falter -

But you fumbled the kebab,

I remember that.

The sauce on the concrete,

and smiling while going to sleep -

while the five am alarm -

drunken charm -

calls to what's left of the girl who cant see times creep