Part II: The night of the heist

We’re hanging out of the eleventh storey window,

Spine tingling from adrenaline and impostor syndrome.

Our legs are heavy but our thighs aren’t shy.

We’re getting drunk on all the things that money can’t buy.

And the seventh heaven seems near when you’re here,

When you’re wrapping around me, I become a seer.

There’s glass on the floor but we’re careful while walking.

No deep feelings, no talk of romance, no naïve falling.

I disguise what’s left of my confidence as a joke

But you climb right over the fiction.

We’re so blissful yet broke.

“It’s the night of the heist, baby, don’t you worry one bit,

Tomorrow we’re gonna burn each stained seat where they sit.”