Image for the poem Nighthawks


We write.

We only meet in the dim lights, it seems,
You and I.
Nighthawks telling stories through flesh and stars and raindrops.
You sit next to me.

They wait for us to spill more secrets,
Though I know not as much about poetry.
No one knows how we're all here -
No one knows the way out -
Yet we love that one air
Filling our lungs differently.

We rarely barely touch,
You and I,
But your smokes enter me -
Black and white and unavoidable.

Your hand near mine - like mine -
Resting then flowing
With verses and rhyme,
Rain and roses,
Thorns and secret universes.

I can never cut as deep as you,
You ruthless bastard.
I guess that comes with time and talent,
And I'm just a lonely young girl you can color in with whatever you want and lay down on pages.
You always bring me there,
To your time, your place.
Was I ever able to show you the colors of mine?

I don't need you to tell me you love me,
Good sir.
I guess that comes with madness - loving me -
And I'm just a girl almost living, almost dying,
Almost naked, almost fucking,
Almost singing,
Almost writing,
Almost cliché.

We like to pretend that we're dancers in the moonlight.
The truth is we're only nighthawks under fluorescent harshness.

Stuck in poetry.

Art: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
Written by thepositivelydark
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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