In the middle of the street
the lamps are making
creamy ripples
of smooth
midnight.
Our voices
are not too sharp
on a dark street
of sleeping windows.
We are talking about shooting stars
constellations
and rolling down the roads.
Our clothes smell like asphalt
and our fingers and toes
are grey.
We are playing games
on a Friday night
and pinkie promising
our college dinners.
Looking into the future
we try not to cry
we try to preserve
like fresh fruit in cans
one last year
of this.