I'm a lost beat in a generation that I don't belong.
This accent isn't my own, and nothing is really just nothing.
On drunken nights I feel you, your words stumble upon my sight ---
And I feel. I feel...Static, ecstasy, loneliness.
This beauty which you claim of blossom fields and grey empyreal
It mimics my inner-manic. Estranged voice that dauntingly whispers:
Don't claim to the beauty you see.
Satellite heart, you're losing your signal, again.
I'd build a ladder to the sky and climb every star, past the moon and beyond, if I could.
I've tried, you know I've tried. Although I refuse to recline, denial itself fixates truth: 
I'll never be able to fix you.
To quench your thirst, to ease your pain, keep you awake...
I'd make you stay, forevermore upon your desire, you know I would.
In my mind, I'll hold your hand without interfere.
And if tears do in fact dry on their own, I'll cry yours along with mine until they do.
Feverish trembling of reminisce will not exist, not here.
Outside these city walls, a place afar from calendar days and neon glistening hours
We will dance atop telephone wires.
The soles of our feet tracing back to the sound of that very first call.
gliding, floating, drifting...recklessly, carelessly, quixotically.
And if we fall, imagine that imaginations fly.
It's been said, as they say, that everything, everything ends.
We are not everything, however. We are merely ourselves alone.
You and I, it is just you and I, dispersed, coffee of the sea.
For no reason other than our own, we rage in reprise 
as metaphors among caffeinated tides.
We are not infinite, immeasurable, imperishable.
Our ancient dead bodies have long been buried in one-an-others heart.
We are our own. Constant as the silence of sound.
Ceaselessly, immersed in the slumber of our dream.