Doing time

Between us and the hours 
there is no poetry, lyrically

It’s hard to describe this dance of ours
Hour by hour as there is no 1, 2, 3

The pen slips on the paper like feet on muddy floors

This ain’t me
There is no 1, 2, 3

Stuck to the bar I am cracking jokes, nuts and writing numbers on coasters

There is no 1, 2, 3
Trying them as pickup lines, I ask her: ‘is this our number’?

We were never one, she said

Looking at the empty first slot in the jukebox with a little bit of regret

She won’t remember the lyrics I sent her 
Doing time in the detention center
There is no poetry

The ear worm fell from her ear canal

It couldn’t beat the drum

Skintight like her dress

My head pressed to her chest all I hear is sand storms fleeting

Our eyes lock, I try to put my hands on her figures
Just couldn't face her.

My keys were minor spending time behind bars

It's five to twelve and she shakes as she turns

She says, I ain’t got time for this

Folding prison bars to paper planes as I watch time fly away