Little details burn your throat. She likes her coffee black and her red converse without socks and she’s never danced in the rain, but she’s sung in the snow. All the small brushstrokes making up her whole you’ll never need to, never want to recall again.

Some night not far from this one, when there’s nothing to say and everything is rushing through the tunnels of your spinning head, all the eager exclamations you never let slip off your tongue, all the words you let lay on your teeth, will swarm through you, a blizzard of the memories you wish you had.

The covers will be tossed aside to stare at an empty phone screen, artificial light filling the bedroom as you read through all the words you wanted to send, all the letters you second guessed and scattered.

If you ever want to know someone, take a look through the Drafts folder.

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Cloth seats and crumbling paint, singing along to your Katy Perry and my Lana Del Rey,

“If we don’t leave town now

We’re never gonna get out of here alive”

Speeding past the stationary figurines posing for their imagined camera. They’re a little narcissistic, but we’re more than a little idealist, a clashing mix of the colors we love and the choruses they hate.

We’re too loud when we’re on our own, too small in the empty buildings, but it’s never been more electric.

Store brand soda and loose change in the cup holder is our two-way ticket to the assured existence of, ‘one day’, and the wind weaving through my eyelashes and shouted promises from behind the glass as the tempo turns from wistful words and eyes turned downwards to exhilarated bursts and hands through my hair.

Cola bubbles on glossy lips and a world revolving just fast enough to keep the breathing fast.

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Pink Staccato Night

It’s a pink staccato night, flourescent lights floating under a dull moon. The beat of glossy heels on decaying crosswalks in the most alive chapter of night keep my eyelashes intertwined for the slightest of seconds and my fingers dancing around the possibilities of doubt. It’s the most electric time of night, strappy heels linked around fingers, high notes shouted across dusty snow, little slices of mirror left in the gutter, reflecting all the words we forgot to pack in our plastic compacts.

Whispy clouds from grainy embers escape your painted smokestack lips as we sit on the curb, among others with aching feet and fiery dreams slowly melting into reality. It’s the kind of dark that we’ve been told to fear, the kind of neon signs we’ve been told to run from, and it only makes us more alive as we scatter from red doors. Our sight is flickering but our eyes are open wide, and the concrete among the shadows below neon lights has never felt more like home.

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Once in A Blue Moon

There’s a little laughter in your voice as you look down the night road from behind the safety of your windshield, speaking of little liquids in blue bottles for another night that pry your body away from the future and pull your mind from the past. Headlights of different colours come sliding towards us as the spotlight thrashes around, searching for its performer. Hands clutching the seatbelt, my eyes will close but there’s still a thumping in my chest. It’s an infinite opera, and we all know it’s not over until the skinny girl sings.

The empty bottles will reflect the headlights, like little blue moons on the side of the road, and all the marionettes will drive past without a moment for feeling or a second glance. Wooden limbs tied to clear strings, they’ll all preach stories of freedom from behind cubicle walls and steering wheels with circle symbols in the middle. It sounds so good when all that hears you is an empty passengers seat, it looks so good on paper. But then, in the final chapter all it leads you to is throwing empty bottles from speeding worlds of luxury, passing by once in a blue moons, until the plastic strings that hold you up are finally cut.

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Playing Cards

We sit in our little bottle of memories, throwing words like shooting stars, flaming meanings encased in easy metaphors. Phrases passed back and forth, each of us telling our own carefully fabricated truths to unravel the other’s. It’s all flourescent lights and streaked linoleum floors around us, a familiar backdrop for the last scene of our never-ending play.

It’s a little to universal, a little too cliché, so we’ll keep our little conversations to ourselves until the tables turn and the chips are pushed to the middle of the table. Another game of luck, something like destiny and that thing you like to call fate. You’ve torched enough of your bridges to gain a reputation, and I’ve always been blind in one eye.

Playing cards corners curl as the white turns to black and liquid fire turns the paper edges to little anthills of ashes. Again and again, until all that remains is the king of hearts and the queen of spades

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Karma Calling

*My first attempt at something like lyrics…oh well*

Talking trash in bathroom stalls
Lipstick prints; tile on the walls
Pillowy lips part for the latest scandal
You love the spotlight so you’ll burn a candle

Little words come seeping through
The ventilation in the room
And we all know it’s safe to assume
Your just a bottle blonde puppeteer

You can’t stand not being in the limelight
So you scatter your life until it fits you right
Another day is just a gateway
To the secrets you hide throughout night

The bubbles popped, mascara falling
The phones for you, it’s karma calling

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Live a life prosthetic, die a life pathetic

Live a life prosthetic, die a life pathetic

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