Streetlamp Gaze

In consequence there is a pulse. A beating of moments. I feel fingers on my hand, not mine because they’re, I don’t know, resolved. And see one of those enormous moons with candle-wax craters, I am certain that there were the complications of headlights and the murmur of Indiana while two shadows clothe asphalt and a laugh stabs at the neighbor’s front window. I like to think it was spontaneous and I was happy. When thoughts become a current I remember how I had smiled over his inability to open a door. No, no. You have to really push it. Push. Like that. (Insert the part where I trust you)