I'm into it.
I'm so into it.
The riots, the renegades, the relentlessness
the rent-less nights.
I can't sleep in this heat and my dreams can't rent space
when there's none to give.
The stale, warm air climbs into bed with me and lingers
like the same bad joke I always tell myself
when I see sweaters on the sale page while shopping online in the summer.
Some thoughts must have a lease protected by rent control,
though it never seems to be the most profound ones
that negotiate a way to stick around.
that negotiate a way to stick around.
The mind can be a mean landlord.
This sigh is so deep I feel like I'm sinking.
I move quickly out of this place and try and remember my afternoon -
stripes that match my lips and shoes
draw a friendly stare,
you hover, drop your gaze to check out my cover,
and nod, seeming to approve of my reading fare.
I don't have time to say "I like the mustache"
before you dash for the platform ahead.
Maybe next time instead.
At least then I'd have an excuse to lay here awake in my bed.
