Your whisper sounds like
squealing tires
and tastes like motor oil
By the way.
My tongue is thick
with goodbyes
But that day,
You spoke like strangers.
The kind you find familiar
when they hold up signs
and out hands
while their eyes lie low
Building castles on the sidewalk,
Sand castles.
Waiting for the tide of feet,
too eager to mind the monarchy.
But take a quarter for your troubles.
"And track marks"
They think I'm thinking.
But I was busy wondering
If their god smelled
like burnt rubber.
And the last drop of cologne
In the bottle they nursed from.
I wondered if their god
could dance
with two left feet between fate
and fantasy.
And if there are ash trays in heaven.
I walk through their kingdom
like eggshells,
While you watched
Praying for an omelette.