Who’d have thought, the ashes in my mouth taste sweet. That the gunpowder would smell like heaven falling down around.
Behind the suffocating noise there’s a quiet street. I’m a thing of the in-between spaces, and I’m in love with the night air.
It’s not quite right, but it rained, and I savor every moment.
She wanders in between the nonsense images of a searching trance; birds and fence posts, the pattern of threads in a grey hoodie. Red hair and a subtle grin. She’s prettier than the birds so I remember, though not why she’s so familiar, she might be wearing that sweater. I’m sure I saw her somewhere else, but who she is doesn’t matter in the dream.
Just a distillation, now, an incarnation of every pretty girl with fire in her eyes and tragedy in her heart. The kind of beautiful disasters I just can’t resist, all stormclouds and the kind of thunder that rattles you all the way down.
A lovely thing to have dancing through your subconscious, waiting in your dreams.
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