Brand-glow on my cheek like a barcode stain— breathe slow, jaw locked, “I'm cool” on cue. Lobby smells like bleach and cheap cologne; I nod at the drone of the revenue. Your “I miss you” comes with fine-print lips; my “me too” lands clipped, like rent is due. We kiss in the lift while the speakers hiss— soft synth, hard grin, love under review. I keep it polite in the floodlit line, but my pulse keeps punching the plexiglass. Street's full of saints with a hustle mask; you learn to laugh while you're living fast. I tell myself “focus” and force it flat— bold face, cold faith, don't ask, don't crack. But I'm built like glass with a split grin; one bad tap and the whole thing snaps. I'm dressed in desire, stressed and wired, chest on fire— still acting “together.” You touch my wrist and it flips the switch; I stiffen, then drift, like feather in weather. I'm “made to move” in the middle— I end it with “proved”; you end it with “better.” The end of my “proved” hits your middle like “moved”— bent groove, same wound, pulled tighter. Headline hunger, dead-eyed wonder— breadline thunder under neon sedation. I chase that blaze like it's praise, but it's phase-shift rage in a gilded equation. Violence buys silence; I sign that bargain, palm still warm from the altercation. Love under pressure, tender but tense— two hearts in a market that's on rotation. Tick-tick, clip-click, quick wrists—brick grip, sick twist, lips split, don't blink. Slick s-shh, switch hiss, wrist chip—skin lit, grin fixed, I fit what they think. Pack-line pace, patch my face, catch that case—cash talks, I stash that sting. Taste then tase, chase that grace—same chase, I race, get erased mid-sprint. Cold code, close coat—no hope, low-note; slow smoke, soul sold, so-so. Cold code, close coat—no “home,” lone loan; toll road, soul owed, no-go. Paid plain, pain placed—same day, same drain; I play brave, then cave late. I say “safe,” they save face; I stay chained, but the chain's “first-rate.” Gold grind, god-given—no mine, all ours; worn smile, torn hours, crown-clown. Gold grind, god-given—no why, just more; cold bile, sold power, breakdown. I lease my peace in a glass-lit lease; I least my piece when the glass gets lit. I pay for calm with a paper palm; I pray for calm and the pager hits. I burn too bright in a quick-night run; my “win” gets thin when the crowd turns casual. Affection turns correction— directed reflection, perfected selection, all practical. “Practical” means I'm printable, portable; chosen on paper, disposed like a capsule. So I hold your hand in a hallway glow— warm for a second... ...then back to the hassle.
