It started with the streetlights buzzing on with sunset, autumn shadows in a strip mall town. We'd press our faces to window screens and breathe in bonfire breezes. Fake a myth and then believe it, high on just a sugar rush of sound, huddled in basements, politely waiting, so in love with the aching for a cinematic something, a touch to crash these constellations down. Tonight's the word we'd sing. Burning leaves, bleeding chorus, a warm and careless kiss to floor us, night was ripping open for us. We were conjurers, fading into ghosts. So the infinite ended. We carelessly spent it, and grew more tired than we ever knew, the dreamless sleep, the debts and deadlines. Try reviving sensations with wine and compilations. Visions glitter and recede to blue. Still I press my face to a window screen and beyond the belt line droning, faint voices are trembling, young ghosts singing out for me and you. We can join them if we want to. Burning leaves, bleeding chorus, a warm and careless kiss to floor us, night's laid bare and calling for us. Come on, conjurers. Dark is nearly gone. Meet me where the leaves still burn. Breathe in and believe me. It's just a little further on. Through the backyard shadows, see the lovers swaying. Sing to me of chances gone. It's a beautiful aching. I swear I hear it calling.