I believe that there exists a class of people

who know what it is to perpetually look from the outside, in.

subtle evidence of our plight are the smudges on

train

stretching your feline limbs under white sheets,

you are sinewed and tanned, skin bitten.

luxuriating in the space between the first

egg-shell flutter of eyelids

you asked me who sings my favorite song

but could not understand that no artist produced

the honeyed street sounds and distant laughter

of a 2 am city,

I’m tired of the cell-block of

8pm — 1am:

imprisoned by seduction of twilight

and the trail of midnight kisses leading to twisted sheets,

I’m left still glittering,

you see chipped paint &

anonymous masses,

but I see through the golden glow of a sunset

and

every plastic-bagged encounter is a syllable of a love language,