"it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it"
— Frank O'Hara

because smoke flowing out from
your mouth reminds me of how
we made a fire out of cheeks, and
the guitar’s howls that echoed
upon the pitch-black valley in
pine needled city. such idea is
solemn and still, like the moment
I found that used condom lying
beneath your bathroom door, still
and solemn. there were actions
before we knew what we are, and
no ideas what we’ve become. even
before becoming, what we always
did was to act according to the
colors of the sky: black is when my
dry lips mounting on your plain
forehead, while blue is when my arms
over your torso during the road trip,
and orange means your puffs and
mine becoming indistinguishable;
and since puffs equal to exhalation,
and exhalation equals to unsaid words,
we said nothing, and therefore still
no ideas what we’ve become after
city, after fire, after skin, after
solemnity, after us, and even the sky.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s