if i had a clever title for every time i wrote a poem (i’d never have titles like this)

early mornings

the world sits tipped

stars black as diamonds

ceiling stripped

and in the dark

my morals trip

no moonshine guide

lunancy’s trick

air hazy soft, like

two buds, nipped

almost as good as

Twilight’s script

here’s to Us, this

relationshit--

the street fights

beneath street lights

over last rites

over limelight

the meters ticked

but never paid

the morals, fixed

but never spayed

and in this hour

it’s hard to say

exactly from which path

I’ve strayed