[PancakeBrah]

You're my jazz notes. Taking me past midnight,
car free. Wearing your yoga pants skin tight,
crossing over the median's grass knolls.
Laying in the paved bed, while the yellow lights flash slow.
Footsteps on the road. We're so naked, alone,
while clothed, while these stoplights hold.
Just hours ago they held headlights as plastic gems,
car horns, and 'them'. The traffic.
The routes to home. To the maps they would bend,
adhering to route.
So static. Clogging this street, hapless. As phlegm.
Not knowing we'd break from apartment. You my curative figure.
Sidestepping the law. That our fingertip curvatures
break into slivers, slipping, sinking immersive.
Your weight. As we paced off the sidewalk trap
into the 'street'; the boulevard or avenue
to defy. That we'd define this tract.
with finger's valleys clasped, grasped mine in you.
Backs on the asphalt. Looking upward.
The sky is so fine. And no one else knows
that this road is yours and mine.