I looked at the drops on the ceiling of my aorta.
Frozen on the pause of an oscillation
that I still don’t know why it began.
Still! May such battle cries never be forgotten.
I looked at the silver vacuum that cracks the walls
with a colorful cesarian flood.
Hot tea, secret recipe, with a shot of bourbon.
Neurons and muscles of a beautiful backside that didn’t break
when it should have.
And fingers divided into sectors

Blissful will be the day
When we will lean side-by-side against an unbreakable wall
And if we look back
Only the grey scale graffiti
Will remind us that we left something behind.

Blissful will be the day
When our roads part
In their beginning
And the gun that we jump
Will have no echo.

As long as we can keep our hands in our pockets
And the tips of our fingers caress
At least a pack of yellow filtered cigarettes
In honor of all those that didn’t come unfiltered.