Reverberating voices down the hall
and the emphatic resentment of an elevator’s ascent.
It’s like they know we’re around.
Dreams of citrine silk and confetti exhaust on the floor
blurring themselves inside the montage of
our untouchable narcissism.
The girls have hunger under their intoxicated smiles.
Cherry colored sin devours the last of their
juvenile vex; the apathy melts around their
angel-jaded gazes.
Can we let the dizziness of tomorrow’s sunrise
blur the glittery residue of adolescent rapture?
Or have we crossed the line of
premature contingency?