They could smell our smoke, I'm sure,
when we would pass by passively
- existing and wishing wanting.
Forgetting each word stumbling from our lips, tumbling
to their deaths on the hard, warm concrete.
The golden whispers we kept to ourselves,
which made them all the more profound
and we were proud to call ourselves
what we were then
- what we are still.
Can you be anything but reckless and cowardly in your own way?
We were children out every night that we were sleeping together,
sitting together around fires, making stars and
laughing drunkenly on a cloud above everything.
They could see our glazed eyes for what they were, too,
for what they were