On the back seat

where the morning

goes blind
and where sight

is gained
in the mud

of night
—smudged

on the eyes,
memories rewind

and then unfold
like the humming

of a shadow
melting

off the skin
at the howling

end
of the morning.
On the back seat

where they still are,
soft as the light

through the bedroom

curtain,
my thoughts

of you, those ones

I’ll shake off

—eventually
as I do sometimes

my reflection

in the mirror,
they remain

in puddles,
thin enough

to pretend
flowers

don’t dye.
On the back seat

where the morning

goes blind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________

Photo: Emilie SCIARLI ~ https://www.instagram.com/teddycalavera/