We are the kids who smell of
two-day stale leftovers and liquor.
Chasing skeletal
Breadcrumbs on each corner, or dark alley;
The kids with the brightest eyes.
The kids who build
Houses of cards
Just to tear them down.
Silence lingers
On our backs like burlap sacks.
We, who snuff rose petals
To feel something beautiful;
Who see ourselves
As fleeting as the sunset--
Riding the moon out, like
A cowboy.