My fresh palette; our dying
conversation about being alive, for you
it was the bands no one listened to,
not even themselves, and love was a pizza
four hours cold with a slice
missing, waiting for you
asleep with the neons
of the night of a shitty pale town
everybody passes through never
seeing a hotel. They found you
there in the street dancing and yelling
and falling and noticing that the grass was
never green, with the hues of the dirt and the snow
and crushed beer cans in between, you
lay in it all, spilling your dress’s thrift
shopped red and the sleepless blue
of your eyes, their bags hiding the choked sex
you like so much, but the night’s tired
too, and there’s no hotel
around, and your pizza’s getting cold,
and your music’s running out, so you go
back to your books, back to your paint, looking
at me then back at your canvas as I
look at you then back at these
words as I write them asking,
how will I ever find you?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 1.
Emmanuel Flores is currently an undergraduate student at Salisbury University and is an Assistant Editor for the poetry section of the school’s Scarab Literary Magazine.
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