From the highway,
the city always looks smaller.
At night all the comers and goers flying
down the street
look like fireflies waiting to burst
into a thousand rainbows and these
these are my first memories of holding your hand.
I want all nights to end this way,
watching the cars crash into pillow cases full of rose petals,
the light shining just so.
"Picturesque" should have met us before it defined itself.
I'm sure it would have had something to say about our feet,
bare and dangling over the infinite catwalk
that seduced us.
It would complain of our pulse being too loud,
It would ask why we were a symphony of lips parting
then ask why it must be just a word
dribbling off of a third grader's chin.