morning, it's always morning,
even when it is night,
because at the heart is a switchblade
and it slices life like a lemon,
which squirts into your eye
and you are blind to love for a brief moment,
and then you are thirsty or tired.
I thought that was a book
laying at her feet in a parking garage,
but it was a discarded carton of orange juice,
and I do not recognize the brand;
she kicks it, splashing ants on her boots,
before kicking me off the top of said parking garage,
where I land in summer snow
only to spell out the word 'Why' with my body.
even Instagram can't make this look better in filter,
smoking tenth cigarette at the height of heart,
the depth of desire only to live forever,
and keep stealing things like rocking chairs,
Christmas ornaments, ketchup, lightbulbs from hotels,
all benign – not mattering – like me in my purview
of the past that wrecks us to this mayday day.
sound the silent alarm, children, and hit
the nine minute snooze, because booze only
makes it more mundane, and by the time you are
38, you will have time travelled beyond blinks,
behind buildings where burning is best reserved
for things worth burning: letters, books, photographs...
to be forgotten anyways in heaps of Heaven.
I am not me; I am the clothes I wear,
where first impressions at a glance
from across streets where minds are made up
like job interviews for meet-cutes,
and most of us are destined to lose,
but if we know this then maybe just maybe
we can win a little on the back end
when laying still under lover's dying eyes or mine.