not dressed right
during the last nights of dancing
composed of still sagging pants
mouthing your name
a fedora filled with the cold
thoughts of yesterday’s goals
and this moment of a leg over another
wanton with more
a beat a slip a light snapping at my eyes
to look at how to move like morning
smoking over a summer to be
a winter that can dip and die
until the next song slides in between
the deep kissing of hand holding
and the smooth wind between your knee
where you take me aside
compliment me on my style
whisper to meet you in the small quiet
to spend the darkness in untrained cpr
against a heart that is taken away by a life
played out a bit stale years later
proving that the music wasn’t worth much anyway
Mizpellt wurdz 
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