It's 3, antemeridian, and she wears her long-sleeved plaids. Dawning in humidity, her one hand holds a naked plastic doll with skin as mahogany as hers. Her mouth speaks in fabrics, her heart sinks with fervor. Near the train's end, she waits for him. Oh, the shivers he sends.
Just like a flashing strobe, she and him blissed up north. Dusking in frigidity, his left hand slides against her pallid palm, veins and vessels are calm. His throat thirsts with nicotine, his brain drenched in heroin. Far from the city's trend, he smokes with her. Oh, the trembles she makes.
It's 4, postmeridian, outfits of black and white, with a tinge of blood. A series of unfortunate events interweaves their late summer nights' dreams. She hums him to sleep, she swims in reverie. Oh, they daydream for so long. Their future tense, they spoon, him enclosing her.
Just like a black hole, never-ending phrases of dandies. Those '50s thrills and secondhand finds. 6-hour rides and stolen shots. Whether rainy, rather windy. Water temperatures. Frosted windows. Wander-full strangers, beautiful you.
