in.
twenty-seven days
and twenty odd hours
I will become a paper alligator,
and my heart will be in a plastic bag.
I need you to need me tonight.
take to the bridge.
wish over it
when the numbers match,
way west with empty.
in ten years,
these months won't matter.
those days will.
these moments will taste like anger,
but when the river pulse runs the veins with rakes,
we will smell something familiar
and shake at a desk or an airport.
let's get ugly and strong,
reptillian, ghost.
long way now,
the devils in our old town,
two stops short of Babylon.
I felt the cut.
between fingers.
you said you would.
and you did.
wear the newspaper.
make it through the night.
burn in the fire.
we will save each other in a swamp.
or a factory.
or a river city.
or a pub.
in ten years
when the paper has yellowed and time has won.