it's a small, quaint informality,
we're bumping our teeth against steel
everytime we hit a crack in the sidewalk.
it's a rythmic dissonence in the back of our brains.
we walk like dusk. sunlight draining from
suburban streets, and us
crouching in the shadows of houses
standing perfect and orderly in vainglorious judgment.
before you notice my hand extended alone
in weathered absence,
you'll notice that the cracks between my fingers
are lacking warmth to fill in the light that streams through.
you'll curl your face into my neck
and hold me closer than anyone can ever know
while secretly i'm praying
that the panes of glass staring out the windows
will contain themselves long enough before they shatter.