French New Wave Lifestyles

She seemed relatable

like a French new wave film—

Her hair was tangled by

the absence of the thrill—

My mind fell blind in the dark

each movement felt removed

In black and white it all looks like

some senseless noir doom.

Descending ladders with a

backwards forward view—

Replaced reminders taken

for some other you—

She stepped calm in the light

another foreign move

In black and white it all seems like

you just might make it through.

Now there’s a towel on the floor

white as a dove

Transcending shadows as if

orders from above

The clock just turns and spins

a spiral of what’s lost

In black and white it all feels like

we’re dying to be caught.

In black and white it all looks like

there’s nothing to turn off.

Dying in her arms I’m happy

I see my reflection

through the tangles

from the window

of her eye, suppose

she’s figured out the angles

I’ve been playing,

oh but she’s the kind of femme fatale

worth saving, because lately

there’s a wall built higher than my own good

for, protection

oh but how it all comes crumbling down

the instant, she walks in

where dying in her arms I’m happy

Mural, St. Pete

the polarity between real life and a college town.

I miss my former self.

A chatter-box of complaint.

Endless questions with premature answer.

Horny and mad.

Full of flowery language.

Undefined.

Chain smoking under the gun.

I miss my former self.

Like an old friend.

Like a past lover.

Like a finished book.

Like a sprained ankle.

Like a cavity.

Like film.

I miss my former self.

Arrogant.

Brooding.

Self-deluded.

Know-it-all.

Audacious.

Jerk.

I miss my former self.

Like turning 13.

Like watching Fox and Friends.

Like a one night stand.

Like romanticism.

Defined.

No longer smoking, still under the gun.

It’s the polarity between real life and a college town.