beats are pulsing through lit eyes
that see amber
coated in a hand
that looks like honey
underneath the
yellow streetlights
a small head sticks out a
moving car window
on a still darkened evening
the only sound the
soft wind
and
the endless haunting unknown

They say our brains
Mature over the years.
But what if they only
Destroy themselves before
they can be fully formed?

The gramophone shuddered
As unfamiliar voices swirled
Through its wallowing pipe,
Wondering when it grew so
Croaky, so old, so unlike itself.

My ankles were sore
From standing on my
Tiptoes,
Trying to ascertain
The words in your eyes.
There were none
For me;
You were guarded,
Your gaze obstinate as
You looked straight
Ahead,
Never wavering or
Crouching down to let
Me see into your
Head.