like kids

they kill another thousand with the stuff from America. I sleep and dance into your orbit blind, back to chase a dream I'll never reach. arms around waists like a few times before. you laugh at all my baggage and let me wear your jacket. someone smiles at our packs in the city, insisting it's the best way to travel. wait with the black dog at the pier for the boat to take us someplace further from the city and our phones. when it comes we sit on the roof and choose future homes from our view of distant lands - forgotten village of sleepy dwellings without roads or cars. lost dog escorted back to her father by a neighbour.

we sing and twirl round questions in the sun like kids. sandcastles and confusions by the fire. you cook and I clean and we think of ourselves through days without signal or rosaries. we look out to the lights across the bay and maybe we could make a life inside the hologram. ice cream clouds and at least nine types of birds. sharing gentle light to at night for different books (same author). we don't really enjoy what we're reading but neither party surrenders. I forget to check the news or pray for change.

my portrait still hangs beside the office insect pleading you remember what you want. I wonder why my mark remains - if only the heart would open just as easy as your diary. I fix my hair in your mirror and you walk me to the bus. you’re looking out the window at tomorrow and the clouds. I call my brother on the way to somewhere that makes more sense. we sigh alone together, holding onto the leaf. forget the line of beauty and reach for nothing in particular. accidental theft of kitchen tools. take a shuttle to the cinema to watch the end of days with zombies. 

seek out something new to worship on the scenic route to hell. pray for perfect from the mirror, watch another hundred starve to death. the man on the bridge stands silent by the students with his sign: ‘christ will return’. the kids sing nursery rhymes at the departure gate. I watch the heavens roll the day to dusk over the tarmac. lights dim and babies scream into tomorrow. breathing fine at thirty thousand feet from home and truth and consequence. maybe it’s time to wake up.