Some incomplete poetry

[xephemiance]

it's your silhouette against the sky- swinging higher,
your dashing eyes inviting me to challenge the silence;
it's your back turned to me- curled up in my bed,
listening over the crash of your constricting chest;
it's that we turn to each other- to hide our faces
when headlights trace our shadows into asphalt;

it's these images, drawn from the
soundwaves brushing past,
that were our moments,
like masterpieces of art.

like murals threading through the corridors of my brain
as I follow the flickering light through memory lane
like vaulted and painted ceilings doomed to collapse,
they

infest the gaps between colonies-
clusters of beautiful people,
lightning flashing from cheekbones,
silhouettes of hats and horns,
of hips riding stilettos;
white is the color of their
exhaust of cigarette smoke,
of their teeth bared fiendish-
devilry enthralls the night

set your gravity to freefall-
roaming by in no distance,
the plague hunts new blood;
so stake a rock by the roadside,
but trampled dirt spreads out.
they push away, prance your way
until we're shoulder to shoulder,
folded and sealed shut by the
limits of spinal rotation.