Note

Here’s the deal: when I tap my foot on the ash-stained cement, you be the butterfly mounting invisible treble clefs to the conduction of city sirens. That’s it, and that’s all. The people passing in cars being beaten apart by over-amplified basses can watch as we re-create musical theory; I don’t want anything but the simplicity of this streetlamp’s warm territory.
Forget the tangled knots you stuffed into your pockets to deal with later; let’s not gift existence to these trivialities by holding solemn conferences over them. Let them rot on the agenda.
Conversely, let the future die in the fictional distance. I’m sick of committing. Horizons lie, anyway. We’re orbiting reality, love; let’s slow down to the terrestrial tug.
So here we go: the street expects, the finger finds, and the interrupted transitive implies impatience. The decrepit conductor turns, straightening his coattail and running a cool hand over his pallid pate; lips are licked and pressed to polished mouthpieces in romantic preparation; and eyes straining under the weight of disdainful brows search out the source as my whispered joke reaches the punch line, and your hand flutters up to contain a muffled chuckle.