Sour

The consciousness of
romance is ours
hidden by
nervousness: our
glimpses our
faces our
quick conversations
as our opportunities pass us by
we pass our
lives on to those
who'll have us our
anxiety is infinite
it explains our behavior

We are the flight of birds our
wings are molting
falling from the nest
we give the cities our
hearts
whatever their merits
these tattered feathers
these dull and delicate plumes
are always our wings
our loves
our kisses
blown into the wind
in secret