Microspasmic and ethereal heavenly chords flow inside the avenues and walk ways walled in by different expanses of grey, a monochrome city.
If you have time to stand on the escalator I envy you; dread your existence and pity you on a Friday morning when everything is more quiet.
Hot sweat growing on my back, my fear and financial disparity exploding on my skin. Fresh roasted coffee beans and legs that prove endless and soft descending from a pink comforter.
I walk through the streets in the uncomfortable light of a September morning when the world struggles and it's health declines, but the light of winter is more pure - a planet bathed in cathartic light.
I never forgot how you looked on those mornings when it was colder - your face a faded navy in a morning still wrapped in night. The fire escape and scaffolding like bones that hold up our bodies and the life that applies pressure to the structure.
Akin to the city you are beautiful in the morning, alive in the day, joyous and free in twilight; restless in sleep. I've found a deep rhapsody in the smile that accompanies your perfume; stepping over a single crushed flower and someone's children sleeping on the street.

A sugary leak in and a vengeful glance his way, thirty-eight hour torment. Sitting upright in the bath with your phone resting on the edge waiting for a response, conversation boiled down to a pictorial exchange of genitals: horror that your **** isn't big enough, trepidation that your ****** isn't neat enough.
Tuesday saw you take that leap into forever, you come back up once you've drowned. Skin to match your nails. A train derails inside you; a man is stabbed to death. I'm awake and it's real and my bones are filled with molten fire which spits out of compound fractures to my ego.

A cup of water.
Nitroglycerin collar.

Your love is not a hurricane
It is not an earthquake
It is a sweet, sweet salve
to an old heartbreak

Your love is not lightning
It is not a tidal wave
It is a deep, deep breath
at the end of a long, hard day

Your love is not a fever
It's not an addiction
It is not my nicotine
nitrous
Novocaine or
nitroglycerin

Your love is not suspenseful
seismic
shellshocking
stomach-churning
sugar cane saccharine or
surprising

Every love before you has been
a frantic, careful dance of
close
but not too close
honest
but not too honest

Yet you
strange you
can look at me from across a room or
across a tabletop and
there is wonderment,
but no wondering
passion,
but no pondering

Defined by choice
not whim

We always crave the love
that is our
hurricane
Novocaine
sugar cane
to sap away
our pain

But what about the love
that simply is?

Is that what makes it real?
Is that what makes love
Love?

From where i sit
in this puddle of memories
my instincts feel like
the vague words
that form prophecies
of yesterday

"Run !" they screamed (they meant far and fast)
And when i failed to , she did not.
"Break!" i heard breathlessly exhaled in a yell ( they meant everything)
And where i was weak adhesive begging to bond, she was volatile nitroglycerin  
"Forget what it could do to her" ( I longed to much more than i ever understood)
And where i remembered, she removed.

Instincts.
Born not of anything i could see.
For sure i thought, Paranoia.
But No.  
Something in me saw sure.
when i could not to myself admit
the deadly damage she was capable of inflicting
  
But were this damage to turn to not be irreperable  
I will have been ecstatic to ignore my instincts
Though fool it might make me
If again i near involuntarily ignore
for unbelievable ideals.

I beat you once. I'll beat you twice.
  I promise I won't but you'll set
  me off with a look and I will.
  You always ask for it you know?
  I'm a fragile brute, nitroglycerin.
  I love you but I never loved me.