The crowd is all teeth and neon glow.
I can feel the undertow of sound
(the pulse the PULL the pressure)
but you laugh, and press my fingertips
to your lips
capturing your confession.
You start to shake and they pull you away,
thrashing through the writhing mass,
I scream your name
across this sea of hands and mirrors,
but I know.
The night will devour her young.
Morning, and I am alone still,
trying to fill in the gaps
(and holes and TEARS and holes)
in my twisting memory, trying
the colour of your eyes.
The radio is spitting and hissing,
the tide has gone out,
and you echo in me.
There is wailing in the streets,
a violent banshee descant tearing
across the dawn.
The city will give up her dead.
Morning, and I am alone still.
Everything is quiet now.
There is only the girl in the mirror
and your outline in chalk.