it’s a dare. i used to walk alone in central london.
daffodils bloomed in early spring;
a celebration of greenery and my desire for a neon bulb in a heather grey landscape.

strange,

there is a chance I’m lying

i have yet to recover my woolen heart
so desperate to seek city werewolves
and drink lemonade even if it’s always raining

i trade this taciturn muscle
for a drum that is manual, complete, and is alive
at every rockabilly show
(the singers say they’re from glasgow)
where my hips are pressed into my girlfriend’s
who drinks candied snow

and it’s strange,

how the sweat never leaves my brow
it lingers like the scent of potpourri
scattered on linoleum floors of generic bathrooms
with fuzzy toilet seats and powder pink tiles,

i am the one who never leaves
because i feel
all things that I shouldn’t feel;
a magnification of contagious sentiments
i am the last of my kind

i am a daffodil;
i lie, but only in my own reflection
and if spring time is patient, i shall float on the central city,
sighing and gasping at the other neon bulbs
that bloom before me,

strange