You are fireworks on Grand Via
and the squeal of a drunken pickpocket
while my tune rings the pavement
in an octave just above your reach.
You are bags of emptiness
caught in the wind
dancing circles around my feet.
I am am hair in a vertex
and jazz rising up from the subway.
You are caught in my eyes
with the flick of the breeze.
My legs find comfort
in the sound of an always-loved
nostalgia. Out of control.
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