coming home late at night in a hot daze and crashing on the sofa blasting the naked and famous, it's just me and my heartbeat and the night and the sky is beautiful. something about the softness of the night makes me stay awake in a haze, i could write into dawn. life is a series of soft and hard textures; here it is soft, like the shy breeze that walks over my skin and pulls a wave through the leaves. somewhere in the world it's daylight, your daylight, always different from mine which is hushed and hustling and thick in the sun, and my hands hold on to each other in an energy to decipher whether what i felt in my fingers last night was your fingers or your buzz. i still skip down my road and stumble into my hallway to lie on the floor in a constant search for faces; for one to stare back at me the way that my skin stares into the night