our home was a secret
secluded from the the carnival and lights.
an orphan ( like my mind ) and
stale on the
inside.
the center was
pitch black and hollow.
except for our warm bodies
harvested deep in the middle
there was no life to it.
just us
listening to
an abandoned machine
sing us a song
that'd make our dog
scarlet cry.
i like to believe that we
created a pulse
for our home.
a heart beat created by our
unsure of love
and
my trembling hands.
just enough to shield us
from the magenta moon.