How many echoes did you count
before your night light burnt out
and the sheets were no longer enough
to keep your teeth from dancing?

For me, it was November
when I found my eyelids
violet and blue.
I dreamt that I knew you
before there was much to know,
and now I know that on Sundays
you still sew patches
to your elbows and knees.
I dreamt of your streets
in the folds of my palm,
but I've got to say,
I always expected more footsteps.
And so I let the echoes go by
and never bothered to catch them
because they never spelled my name.

For me, it was November
when I stood barefoot in the alleyway
Armed with open-book thoughts
in a watered-down town.
Keeping the beat for bad company.
Wandering eyeless in this city
casting sharp, midnight shadows
on the backsides of blindfolds,
and holding their hands
and aligning our backbones.
And Howling.
Howling
the way wolves praise the moon.
Wake up, you *******,
you've got your whole lives ahead of you.
Bend your bed frames into
the shape of an untamed altar and
celebrate Today,
Because it's all we
will ever really have.
And alters come in many different shapes
there's no right answer
so stop looking for it.
Just dance your feet from
bed springs to concrete.
and remind Tomorrow that
it has to wait it's ******* turn.
We walk blind to remind ourselves
that night lights only illuminate
the reasons why not to try.

For me, it was November
when the Sunday,
curved-spine crawlers
begged us to sleep.
But I let the echoes go by
and never bothered to catch them
because they never spelled my name.