The Sky is a Painting
We sit outside on gas station curbs at sunset,
eating clearance pastries, 79¢ each, sticky fingers
and glazed, glossed, lips tack onto newly-bought
nicotine, cool mint smoke slips through lungs
and buzzes in the brain, soothing our blooming
addictions. We sit outside on gas station curbs
at sunset, slurping decoy slushies spiked with stolen
vodka, sugar cuts through the burn of the spirits
as they tickle the back of my brain, feet flat
on worn skateboards, that roll back and forth
to the beat of music in our shared headphones.
We sit outside on gas station curbs at sunset,
doodling flowers on thrifted jeans with colorful
sharpies, blending out ink with cheese-dusted fingers,
munching Sun-Chips while we complain about
parents that just don’t understand and friends who
turned out to be a bitch. We sit outside on gas
station curbs at sunset, watching the world paint
the sky autumn, watercolor oranges blend into
reds softening their approaching blues of coming
night. Our knotted heads nestled together
as we whisper meta-musings from buzzed brains.
We sit outside on gas station curbs at sunset
to perform the poetry we see written in the sky.