Half-lidded and weary under self-inflicted lines.
I only ever noticed these lines when you were thinking.
Deep in a painting of neutrons in your mind.
It was a painting I never held the brush for.
I was terrified of mis-spellings or untied shoes while I was near you.
I wanted so badly to touch you.
So, so badly. You were paper.
But glass and freedom was I.
I was free.
The android-dense streets of the city.
So silent. So singular.
We listened to Paul Simon on repeat.
We’d start in separate chairs across the room from each other,
then journey to the floor, and I’d sleep in your soul.
The album would end, and you’d quietly start it again
without disturbing my dreaming and shallow breathing.
I remember it well...
Those monsters were frightened away
when you’d cradle my face and rub my cheek.
I’d sleep to your heartbeat, a lullabye.
Fists banging on a cellar door.
Desperate fists. They wanted so badly to escape.
To be free. Freedom.
The vain streets of the city.
The ending of his album, and no longer repeated.