At times this place is twice the scene of war.
A tit can flash, crowd the eyes, yet our cheeks
fail to even mime a subtle blush. Light
blows down each aisle revealing my place
in last row. Vinyl seats butter my blue
jeans while a woman tries to sleep against
my crimson button-down, her breaths attempt
to gush like mine. I could wake her, but her
rhythm soothes us. A slow and steady
draft shoves between her lips like seas
hauling tides away then in again. Lifting my
neck towards the screen the eyes draw symbols
of cunts with hollow faces. The woman
dreams beside me, yawning those blues in peace.