You always fancied the sledgehammer
and I was a dust addict with no air.
The four walls were sterile,
like your stare while the room
we confined ourselves in
shrank to fit your perception of perfection.
You were narrow minded,
my mathematics were always off
and I was tired of being inside,
so I drew up the schematics for trees,
so I could understand the root of our problems.
You couldn’t lift your hammer,
heavy like your panicking manner
with a laughter of lead
no room for a balloon between us.
I’m tired of sterile and no swinging,
we’re saxophones always reading
the rule book and shaking our flat lips,
trying to talk out with longer notes,
holding on and out for a beat to drop.
It’s here we stop breathing,
In-out receiving each other’s air.
The kaleidoscope is leaking in your chest,
we’re colliding now, it’s what we know best,
making love with a wrecking ball,
knowing we could take a fall
of forty stories, land in the rubble,
dust in our muzzles, to push
a breath to thermal dive on,
ready to rebuild all the levels
with all their floors,
because it’s our flaws
that make us want to go outside.
It’s you, me and the wall.
Let’s forget panicking about perfection
and become architects.