Though we grow gaunt like hollow wisps
eating chips in drafty homes
pulling meek curtains over pollen frosted windows when the evening comes
We build silently in those lamp lit hovels
ink and oil and stone
-
In hallowed boxes of loose ephemera our future lay
In braclets and folded paper
thumbed throughout the summer in pine forts and canteen water
We consecrate our rooms in secret
and write words along the walls
-
In rented warehouses we play and plan
to fuck this place and all within
though we never promise and just hold hands and drinks
We count our earnings in jars
and push pins in maps of our future journeys
-
Satisfied by images and ambience we go
to familiar streets and home dinners
but the urge to wander with you never did stray
We can make these things again
long lost in the timbers
