Do you have the time?
My watch is slow.
The sirens, they will never know
the way we look at you
to make you hold your burning sides.
So revealingly.
So sweetly.

Our eyes burn like libraries.
With tiny thoughts soaked in philosophies,
our lips curl like novels in flames.
And pages blur into smoke beneath the trees,
with a scent that weakens our knees.

Humming to the warning bells,
we pack up the shells and roll up all our sleeves
'til we unravel all the seams, sowing dead wings.
The world, the vacations, the bored girls
with imaginative unimaginations.
They all run us in circles, these things.

Behind their eyes,
their minds burn like factories,
with tall glinting tales of their ways
blotting out the sky with names.
All the people below envy the disease.
The assembly line can be such a tease.

So wear a crown of telephone wire.
Speak soft and careful.
Tired, exposed and spent,
faces will burn like embarrassment, and our
kisses taste like footprints.

Do you have the time?
My watch is slow.
The sirens, they will never know
the way we look at you
to make you hold your burning sides.
So revealingly.
So sweetly.

-Luke Rounda