::10:15:07::

::: A Love Story :::

By day she cements herself into the fast lane.
The rhythmic tapping of her heels on the floor feels more like her pulse than the faint flicker in her chest.
She and her heart had a falling out a few promotions ago.
She wears clothing with recognizable names written on the inside seams
And that comes with no directions for washing
As if to assert her fundamental distance from the grotesque bodily reality of sweat.
She gets things done.
Hers is the type of Starbucks order that runs for 5 minutes in the explanation;
She expects the finished product in 2.
And she doesn't have a significant other,
But she's been known to date casually,
Drinking fine red wines or the occasional lemon drop at night clubs and art gallery openings,
Always very refined and pressed.
Her coworkers long to write dirty things about her in the privacy of company bathroom stalls,
But cannot actually imagine her doing anything interesting enough to gossip about.

But by night his arms are around her waist from behind,
His lips at the place where her jaw kisses her neck,
And he whispers wear your respirator, baby, because spray paint kills brain cells.
Matching hoodlums, together, they are on a mission to reclaim the city and their souls,
And this has nothing to do with gang wars:
They're just trying to get in on the action,
Filling walls with the outpourings of their guts,
Saying god, this is a place where I get to paint my self
And all its tattered edges,
Saying baby, watch me tattoo my face on the open scar of this city.
See, see how beautiful? With every line, I'm tracing your cheek.

Written by: ~ Zoelle