I wear your gaze like it’s the end of May.
Your eyes meet the dark of night.
The clock tower fades into one, two, five bursts of sheen
you wear city lights turned dusk at the stroke of midnight.
I could tell you about the last meal proper before I **** unicorns up my sleeve;
Or the way your nose crinkles when you think I’m not listening;
Or how each step down the mud is feather muck cumbersome;
and traffic turns beautiful when cigarettes replace churros.
The streets are empty without hearts on yellowing pages.
I could count the days when even water on me feels wrong.
I could tell you about my latest tweet and why it’s a waste of time;
or how a cup of bad coffee almost drowned my impatience.

And even then, I would never give you the keys to my apartment.

Maybe it’s in the way you abuse upper case letters to get my attention;
Or the way you right handedly stir your hot tea counter clockwise;
Or how you never settle on one TV channel;
Or how you skip songs instead of deleting those you never listen to anyway;
Or how you grace the ocean with arm floats from a rabbit hole;
Or how you marvel at vacuum cleaners, like you were living under a rock;
Or when you feign ignorance over the missing last slice of pizza;
Or how my Emas are suddenly aligned hanging neatly on the clothesline;
Or how Matt Nathanson is suddenly just a guy with a guitar dad -***.

We could spend daybreak arguing about marshmallows for breakfast,
but I would rather not.
And you would rather leave.

I could call you just to say it is almost 2am,
but I already know that I am;
And we would never make it to lunch.