I bite my nails on the bridge,
spitting the clippings over the edge.
I pen a poem without a name.
I name a poem after you.
I want to be young
(in a better Brooklyn),
I want to be the little spoon.
Seventeen minutes is forever
especially
in new hawks,
kneeling,
seeing lovely legs,
a skinny jeans symphony
and I eat sad pizza.
also,
I see Kyle walking up the street,
shorts and flip-flops,
telling me to be better.
crash!
hallucinations are like this.
rewarding.
when I got the music,
I got a place to go.