After the cinema, when
A curtain dashed by dust comes sifting
Ceiling to floor blocking all curious of
A rummage that happens between acts;
Of placement and prop, there is left this—
The audience. You can live on a stage and never be famous.
Hold all interactions as grand gestures of scene enders but
What comes knocking is not applause, instead
Life, on a curtsey.You can go years with knowing, but not.
Actions in filters and movement for losers;
You can live for everything but self just
Don’t dare call it life.
Life is not mess created, it is the cleaning up
It is the hand raised, the spotlight deferred
The bills getting paid on time
The kiss that you mean and sentences felt
it is not once upon, it is not vague—
the most real thing I know is my alone
it is the struggle between music and quiet
it is the ink in my spit camera down in favor of eye
nowadays
I praise
 no film