It is a long drive
out of this city,
a skyline scarred by worn-out dreams
and an ache for more intimate themes.
Lying in bed sheets that are not mine,
I fold my heart along the dotted lines,
as though to hide the salvage
from the worst of your scavenge.
In the darkness framed by four white walls,
he tells me about his broken sky
as I paint the inside of my mind
with the blue violet of Malibu in July.