Late nights with itchy fingers and waiting paper,
With trampoline eyelids and legs still mid-race,
With home so far away you can't talk to it with a can and a string and a secret,
And silence,
Filling your ears with cotton ***** soaked in maple syrup,
Late nights with rusty elbows and creaky knees,
The darkness a blanket of barbs coating the air that flows in and out of your mouth,
And chamomile dreams just a hair too far away to sip,
Those are the nights where happy meets a cliff,
And sad comes rushing up to greet it,
Entangling and intertwining,
Birthing a melancholy mood that dives into your pores,
Prolonging those late nights.