poetry about poetry written on pages in a philly bar

i'll share a cigarette with you across 12 hours travelled,
with you warm in a blanket of illegal asian beer,
and listen with a soft similar skull.

i'm not sure nowadays if love is a skill,
or a scrawl, life directions
like ships need sails
whales eat krill
a party foul is usually a tiny spill
that the carpet soaks in and easily recovers from -
the light, the sun
two sections of a sandwich bun
two sexes on the run
building homes from eraser dust
and i'm sure that love hugs lust
in it's tingly arms
like a single bread crumb.

hush
sigh
love stays up all night