Those overdrawn nights outside the bar, short tempers
and shorter lines of credit, gouging out self-portraits,
sketching treasure maps upon the asphalt –
all enough scenery to set the stage. So picture this:
you're standing atop a hilltop singing lullabies
to put the moon to sleep, lubricated with whiskey
and rubbed with palm oil, a lonely couple in the background
intertwining hands beneath a canopy of stars. I said
I'd make a movie of your life
unfolding beneath this sandpaper sky, screen it
in back room galleries on the Lower East Side,
ask for donations to document the entire course
of a life searching for its reasons. You cracked
a half-smile, tugged on my shirt sleeve, and said
point and shoot, darling, point
and shoot. Just don't think
you can capture me on camera
without first ripping me to pieces.
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