My thoughts are transparent balloons
unattached from others, singularly
caressing the river of the mind.

Only visible when musing forms
on the exterior, like dewdrops of
syllables coalescing  do they rise.

I observe these tiny reflections
drifting on there own, in forms of
vocalization that collect in verse.

some people have their heads in the cloud because they're falling stars
some people dance in the rain because they can't take shelter

i'm not watering down your fight
i'm not burying my might

some days you ask where this plane is going and some days you realize you're on a train
most days you don't

how free are you?
does it matter?

we run and run
through the spotlights
under the street lamps
and the trials of what is yet to come.

you and i have gone a long way:
you were there when the girl who
first stole my heart
had shared a milkshake on
red leather seats,
and when the same girl left
without me
after paying her bill.

the night is young,
our neighbors are nowhere but in the land
that their heads paint as they sleep;
you and i become artists of the sidewalks and
the rough concrete.

we leave our mark.

"long live the thieves of the street."