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My heart reflects the colors of my brain.
I would rather have a broken heart than
a broken tripod. I enjoyed it when our hands
were like tripods in our hearts,
like new pressures, like a bodyguard
falling asleep while the gun is being loaded
in the distance.

The face is a camouflaged makeup where we
vanished through the tremors, leaving leftovers
for aimless objectives. I am often a typo, a static,
an interval veering into rhetoric supercedings,
therefore why should I ask myself what
I resemble & reflect when your third eye
always tells me what I do not ask for?
like a paranormal television turning itself
on & off, waiting for me to “make a move first”
& secondly:

I feel strongly about your spookiness
like a desire that reverses itself because you have
forgotten what it meant. I feel clung
in the teeth of a star, while you glide by on a meteor
resonating with retinal-blinking, your limbs
like taking apart an umbrella, like admitting
the bandaid didn’t work

& my heart still reflects the colors of my brain,
as if a rainbow sneezed, letting go a mass extravagance
that nipped every person on earth, turning their
darkest secrets into multicolored reminiscences of beauty,
enveloping the senses, the way that you elongated
every horizon with your smile, where I found myself
in those moments between image & self.