You can't hold it too tight

These matters of security

You don't have to be wound so tight

Smoking on the balcony

-Pace is the Trick, Interpol

You can’t hold it too tight

For fear of causing a squeal as the last puff of life flurries about, frantic to flicker, free again.

Theses matters of security

That twist around me

Tangled and tight, pulling all breath

And desire to be.

You don’t have to be wound so tight

Is what I told you when we fought on the way to the bodega.

I talk to the cat inside and buy a pack of Mentos.

Smoking on the balcony is usually where I’ll find you.

Apart from the crowd, you appear introspective, a loner.

But I know you’re just tuned out, coasting.