Most often I see us swirling
in a world of blurred thresholds—

blacklight and amplified octane orange,
where every movement is siren song

and your face is electronic heather
rippled by infinite variations of lime.

Occasionally, we come to rest
in a land of yellowed paper and smog

cold wildness leaking at the edges
of windows and questionable thoughts.

I’ll take you, palm in palm,
to where the earth is less stable but warm;

a path that welcomes far-fetched skies
and anxious mouths of impermanence.

We’ll die if we equivocate in friendship,
stumbling on worn stones of maybe—

some words should kill you just a little bit
with beams of kaleidoscopic frenzy.