45*21

I arrange the flowers with dead objects
in an underground tank
where young adults discuss their sexuality
while very inebriated
Some go for bike rides
in the tight spaces
while the world above spins
into another world
The feeling is mutual
I wouldn't expect him to punch you
but he is not inclined toward practical jokes
Some say "we split with laughter"
There is a tearing in the fabric
The walls of reality
That face us against each other
a quick "fuck you!"
could mean the end of your time
but it goes both ways
one drowning out the other
with the world that goes on around them
the giant chair and the ceiling