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

sky shining in the rainy basements, i just spent life in the desert, and am still cleaning out the dust from my throat. between razor blade edges and waking up in sweat, sometimes all we got is that evening look in the lift mirror; eyes wide and torn, skin wearing the day, and a mouth that's born for more.

so we howl from the pointy rooftops of our quarter life
beauty, surrounded by clouds
and shivers, because modern life romance is dead and butchered and sold to us
in little deep fried pieces
on drunk friday nights
we live our little wild minds
holding on to each
other, trembling at any signs
of approaching release

these lines are perfect when you cut them

and night to night our hearts flutter, beats jumping, captured on our wrists. all is snapshots, life a flip book of moments unconnected, blocks of time removed and stacked, flights and fights and dizzying heights internalised, all is lying in bathtubs and dealing with the watered memories of touch and pent up raw sensation spinning my spine. you were roaring last night, silently; moving through the space and into all of our souls, and i could see in your eyes that your heart was burning too.

i lie awake and low, thinking of loved muted minds trapped in acts of noxious ins and outs; another sip, another shot of that toxin please, as we drink to health, to wild wild mental wealth. bodies creaking under the weight of entwined scents, all mixes into one in a mute collision, to rise and evaporate, a heavy, brutal cloud; the air shivers as it groans. you pierce through these bones so easily as they melt under your touch; gaze ablaze but turned away; ribcage spasms in the unripe night. i'm on a different trip these days, he says, and dances away blindfolded because the light's too bright and all's too much. withdrawal coursing through the blood, a boiling shiver. the need to walk away because your music is louder than mine but i still need mine to be heard, and so i burn all the future pictures i took of you, and inhale the smoke to feed the addiction in my lungs. the next morning smoke an old feeling, with a childhood scent to it. used wine glasses and rolls of undeveloped film sitting on my table looking like the empty promises they contain, the past full of smiles that never last but felt so good at times, and the grimaces now will look beautiful one day too, maybe.

hops from sunset to sunset; in between, an old dream of freedom and a numb face flattenend by the dusty winds. dust everywhere, im biting on it, its in the air, hanging lazily, blurring vision, blocking lungs, ready to catch a spark and throw everything back at us in a silly, silly, cheerful explosion. get drenched; it's easy to miss everything if the world is big and blurred by the sun, and little details scream at you for attention. give them space, for now, and feel again when all returns.

you should have seen this when you were still high

the noise never stops, just takes in all the space you create by taking time off. all is breeze under the middle eastern sky