The crowd gets restless
when the lights never go down,
and the doors behind the blank
screen all are sealed, just like the lips
she paints bright red for you.
After spotting a ladder to the roof
she finally tells you the truth
she never thought that being with you
could be boring.
She wants to drink and so
you drive her through the neon.
Passing people that she knows
with torn up clothes that they
ripped apart themselves.
She pushes open the scarred
door with her middle two fingers
and gets everyone’s attention
like a fire burning freshly in the open.
She turns every background
set against her into a scene,
and in the bar that she now leans
she carves her name and claims
the place forever.
She beckons a bottle from the shelf
and pours you both a glass herself,
then stares off into space
so she can taste it.
Teleporting Typewriter 