Over at the café, we are alone
at sharing our own thoughts, and hot coffee

easily drifts towards our tongues. This is the time
that the bats replace the birds. And we hear

crickets call one another. Tonight,
the moon is high yet huge. Though

the thought of a celebration: a cheesecake
two cups of coffee, friction, we ourselves take

the knives, slit each other open. Hear
our hearts beat the same anthem

we hear every night. So we let the blood
flow from these hummingbird chest,

ooze to the pavement like honey. It
glints against the moonlight, a river way

filled with rubies. And we can be sure our insides are

finally healed. For the demons had
set foot against our will

and into the wild. This, indeed, calls for
a celebration. Friction,

we let it speak.