tomorrow, i'll have that post-it note
pressed against my dashboard,
broken confessions from a hazy night,
for a boy i can't remember.
there is less smoke in the city
this time around, and less opportunities
to tell our stories.
we have truth in the alleyways and
honesty in the palm of our hands,
because that's the only way to protect
virtue from the
at night, we dream in monotone and
cry for the things we've lost.
all i have left are secrets like broken glass,
swept into dusty metal pans and thrown out back
right into the dumpster.
we live in cities of hopes and dreams,
where reality no longer exists, and this
is the only
way i know how to