when you've lived so long under the flight paths you cease to hear their sounds. we're two train wrecks on endless tracks with ashtrays at an elbows length and your smile is a cancer which kills my commonsense. so darling, do me some damage, let your blue veins show beneath our winter layers (your bedtime warmth is an extra coat) and speak softly crumbling consonants of adventures we'll run to; eventually. and our winter is a series of complicated rearrangements like an adornment of dates on a dusty textbook timeline.