Our Cinema.

You spend your minutes on the baseball diamond, watching the fireworks before you drive away. Your hair falls back against your crescent back, that curve so familiar.

I'll hide my hand between your curls, if you promise to watch the falling sky.

You pick your anthem in that run down sedan, a sing-along when we drive home. Let you hair fall back against that black vinyl seat. Toes on the glass and heels on the dash, fall asleep counting the falling sky. Those billions of falling pieces.

Brighter than fireworks and farther than those words choked in my throat.

Picturesque and sort of silent: a movie missing backdrops and replaced with this highway of sidewalks and driveways.

A film so surreal that you can't tell its this real life fake. These real life people playing these real life fakes. Their ghosts painted upon a white canvas that drips with sound and color.

Sound turns to music.
Color turns to cinema.

If you promise to remember your lines, I'll promise to fake this reality as real as I can.