The Lexus ES 300 Black

9:11:07- 11:31pm. This hole has filled up with a scar and it peels on late-night roadways, on eiderdown satin comforters, on Thursday night dinner reservations that havn't happened yet, during painting, through scattered penmanship, whispering secrets behind frosted bathroom glass, without ice, on the side of waffles, in the corners of eyes, cered on Paige jeans, littered on the paint of the 2001 Lexus ES300 Black, threaded in blonde, cat-scratched on hands, ripping through Park Ridge in Germanic tongue, and eagerly awaiting every kiss that will leave me Breathless tearing off my lips and sending search parties through Wicker Park with Ralpax on their palms, and prayers in their eyes.