We’re all just missionaries without a religion
Revolutionaries with cigarettes hanging
forlorn fingers
picking at the afterglow
Lips parted
as if to induce potential
Half-open yellow windows
Like at sunset
Where the only lights
in the city are streetlamps flickering
and the bygone passersby
are hangover silhouettes
remembered
47 hours later
Fleeting aspirations and morning lights
Leaning out my screenless window
All the angles are just slightly off
From degrees
The blue, a color
I know is fluttering
inside my retinas
reflecting midnight monsters
under my bed
I am my own worst fear nowadays