When the sun slips down beneath the city's steel framework
And makes caricatures of the architecture's serious expression,
I will dream of you in the front seat of your car.
I will imagine we are going home, to our home.
We are laughing about all the ridiculous moments we both knowingly captured
If not for the sole purpose of sharing in our hysterical tomb
Your laugh is enough to validate my presence.
Sometimes I imagine we make it home and unpack your things
Lugging heavy black equipment up cement stairs or squeezing it into florescent elevators
Gazing with exhausted eyes and breathing more heavily than we'd like to admit
We are home. Sometimes, we are home
And retreat with giggles to our room, glass of water in hand to leave on the windowsill, for nostalgia, or perhaps a reminder
Of where we came from.
Sometimes, we slip into the darkness and carry on our romance, however it may end.
Sometimes, I crash the car.
Slide its thick tires across the glossy street in the moonlight
I guide the silver vehicle smoothly to kiss the rough bark explosively
To preserve these smiles on our faces permanently
To slip in to the darkness and carry on our romance.
However, it won't end.
When the sun comes up to greet the graying clouds above
And restore confidence in every brick, stone and window of every standing monument to existence,
I will shake my dreams from my brain like tired water.
I will imagine nothing but your incorruptible smile.