Let me paint this picture for you.
When he was standing there so still, with a cigarette
kissed in between his fingers, I thought:
my god, I didn’t know Van Gogh found a place in my bones
to harness my lipstick thoughts, and put them right before me.
I’ve decided the best piece of architecture to be is a brick building,
so I can see you in and out of crowds, so if you fall,
I’ll be there to hold you upright. I’ll be there to be a shoulder rest
while your other arm lets you take a drag of gray.
I’ve also decided the worst piece of architecture to be is a brick building,
so I can see you in and out of crowds, but only from a certain angle.
So if you fall, you better hope your head isn’t near me to watch you bleed
when you collapse into my arms.
I have video camera vision. Black lens irises that take photos with blinks,
and captures moments with stares. Your brother is my muse but you,
you are the one human out of seven billion I choose to take your wild,
run away with it like Bonnie and Clyde, and keep coming back
to dig out that old polaroid of you and your damn cigarette.
Did I ever tell you I thought we were a bit like Bonnie and Clyde?
That I wanted to rob you from rot but, Jesus,
I just kept staring. I never wanted to be a filmmaker
but this is one blockbuster hit to my heart and,
when you start singing, your guns for hands
are just hands. They play a beautiful tune.
I hold them in mine, and when I tell you
about the man and his cigarette,
I felt the burn and bled the smoke,
kicked to the opposite brick wall where he only stands now
in a photo I took as I saw. As I saw. As I saw
him go inside until I was no longer at a perfect angle.