Chapter Text
Streets talk, you both knew it. You only wish they weren't your lifeline.
How many times have you been here before?
Here on a Sunday morning barefoot on the tar, heat clouding your ears with only the clothes on your back to your name. Morning-light just like the sun that bathed the skin between him and you, knit between a threadbare quilt and laughter, soaking up dreams of a tomorrow that would never come.
Here on a Sunday morning, where the roads ran empty, potholed as they came, trees unmoving in the distance - a fucked-up face with a colder stare. There was no saving you this time. There was no suburban oak buttress to cradle your limp body, nor a Mother Mary to tide you into a brighter dawn; this time, your dead weight was yours to carry.
Streets talk. If you could only remember how many times you crossed the dirty amber of cab headlights for a quick buck. How many seedy eyes through the glass pane scoured you down and up? Only for you to pass out on the back seat, couple tens stuffed in your briefs - which they left at your knees.
When you wipe away the grime and shame, what's left? If you hold onto his voice, will he remember you?
Streets talk, and you wish they could tell you where Favor was tonight or where he'd be going - you could love him and he'd pay you this time.
Same sky. Same rabbit. Same fences by the side overgrown in moss and weed. Same old dreams in the eye of a storm, telephone lines going for miles - the last you'd remember until you woke up again, in the arms - bed - of someone you didn't even know.
What's left of you?
Streets talk. So he would never find you in his.