The sky is bleeding, unthreading itself into cloud

while you exhale ramen and our pipe dreams
Light starts to glint off bookcases
and I can see my laugh bouncing in your glasses
It looks natural there

This is the sticky side of life,
not as sweet as the champagne we couldn't buy
We talk in fragments of glass,
hoping the sea will round our edges

We turn on the radio to unsympathetic static,
fiddle with dials until saxophones trill
It’s an old song,
but we can’t hear the dust as the beat tip-taps
We can’t hear anything

This is the sticky side of life,
the residue of picket-fence existence 
We can’t march down paved roads
with feet only meant for dancing on tabletops

Out the window a man sketches footsteps in the sand,
daring the tide to leave him forgotten
We forget everything:
to snap pictures, to turn off the teakettle, to waltz on the beat,
We forget the night will end

We try to play jumprope with clock hands,
but we trip every time
We slip on expectations like winter coats,
and we face the cold

This was the sticky side of life, briefly