untitled.

there are things I'm still quite sure of;
like I love you this hour, today.
there are things I'm still quite sure of.
         like last summer and being in sunshine stained windows and
here on street corners,
these are things I'm still quite sure of.
         fucking birds singing in the middle of the night,
motorcycles roaring through my window
and walking down the street to find you following your way,
sideways like too-tall flowers droop in tiny vases.
         riding buses in dusty places, and dropping small things
making piles behind us, filling the spaces with pancakes and syrup
it's all that I'm made of, butter and frying pans.
         for every time I could show them how we waited.