We let the light behind the bunting
provide the decoration we needed.
The fireworks bled, they're still bleeding,
and we're treading water because the wind
congealed into something cold,
hats nor scarves can curb this temperature's hold;
I'll let you lead us home, under the influence,
under the direction of that wine you had.
Forever, if a measurement of course,
would be an ample amount of time
to walk behind you, dark horse.
Cotton scarf whip,
rouged lips again and
it's ten to ten,
we could go home.