Junot, This is Most
Certainly How I Lost Her

honeysuckle overwhelms,
a cigarette out the window,
whirling plumes and pollen,
past my supposed perfect prayer.
i taste childhood,
                    in flowers.
i taste adolescence,
                   in smoke.

And,

here i am:
staring at stars;
staring at moons;
staring at what i won't believe;
staring at smoked stained sky;
staring until i feel—
                   when i feel like you're beautiful

and,

remember to stay true—
                   to you
remember to walk tall—
                    for me
remember to never die—
                    for anyone

but,

in a moment when in our own space our own time
we—i—you have to allow the cord to be severed for the first time
since i burned us together with a bic lighter—
singed the end of my cigarette
spitting puffs of perfect honeysuckle smoke around the girl and a silhouette
that i left out in the bucolic sunshine—
being your own person
is the hardest thing we've ever // done.