Her Voice Is a Beautiful Melody

A poem — burn, part two

You like to walk home at night without your glasses you like how the whole world blurs, into this ink blank canvas and creates little spots of light.

You like the anticipation of danger there is a futility to life, you talk about this sweet spot, in the middle of life and death where life is just pure euphoria.

You used to tap it through drugs but you’ve got a girlfriend now.

You spend your nights choosing baby names for a first born son yet to be created. She is ok with you wandering down that alleyway to her house because she knows you will always come back.

You’re both sure of that.

You call her on the phone her voice is a beautiful melody, second best you’ve ever heard excited to go to bed together.

Burn.

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