Back when we would lay upon that
railway embankment, those evenings
the bulk of our days. Those jagged rocks
that would embrace us and prevent any
drunken fall, no matter how hard we
Our heads heavy under the pipes, cans
and marker fumes; our bones grinding
against our innocence as they grew.
Our voices now slightly harsher but still
as sharp as ever, but never puncturing
As the sun set we sheltered under
that towering bridge, its walls now forever
stained with our presence like a gallery
of gleeful stubbornness, we attempted
cleanliness later, but two decades on
our fingers still remain stained.