My breath fogs up the window, shape of a moth-wing, with
artificial lights interrupting my brief spiral of unrepentant joy.
This is the Autobahn, heavily trafficked by extraneous
ideas that never cease rushing onward.
Much stimuli can be found here, sandpaper
beneath curious fingertips, lemons sour on seeking tongue.
The city we frequent is soon to be industrialized, the
holes they are digging lines for electric lights
that will drown out everything familiar to us
beneath a cruel, fluorescent glow.
Your pliable atoms, once spread apart and easily accessed,
have been rearranged to deny me.
Your completeness has been responsible for
my emptiness, and I am no longer sure of our happiness.
Using abstract ideas as a last, desperate attempt
to paint a picture of this plight, I implore you
to escape this place with me, where natural light
will again give wing to our nighttime voyages.
But even a soliloquy penned by Shakespeare could not
undo this. The truth, I realize, is that we have reached an impasse.~~
Moth wing-shaped breath fogs up the window
obscuring artificial lights; the
hum of whirring wings drowns out the sound
of gravel beneath spinning tires.
This is the Autobahn, heavily trafficked
by ever-fleeing stimuli. Through the static we hear that
this city is facing industrialization,
electric lights appearing that
drown out all familiarity in the cold
fluorescent glow of the unknown.
Atoms once pliable to these fingertips
have been rearranged to deny me.
Your entirety leaves me hollow
as I burn in the acidic glow of artificial hope.
Abstract ideas reminiscent of Picasso
fail to capture this plight.
Moth wing shaped breath fogs up the window,
obscuring the artificial lights.
Even a Shakespearian soliloquy can’t undo this.
My love, I believe we’re at an impasse.
No bumping! *Slaps bianca's wrist.*