Neon
The moon spits neon. Stockpiled
wishes ignite another crowded night
in the slow burn
metropolis.
You are flicking ashes
at anxiety attacks,
worried about work
and weight
and breaking it all to your mother.
Sometimes I seize with the city.
We hold eclipses under
bitten tongues,
lighting the way home. We bullets
stray too far from our targets. I wish
I could take you
to the exhale.
We don’t need to speak.
The sky sits heavy
above our rooftop party
on the tower—
A blink and a breath from the rubble,
the batted lashes
of butterfly wings,
a skipped stone, an upturned ocean.
Thousands of tiny deaths ripple,
awakening rivers.
They shake electric cities
to candle-lit vigils
honoring
what had to fall.
Hanging in effigy
from the power lines
could be the better parts of ourselves.