In the first photograph, I stood opinionless: like a ballpoint waiting for an instruction to scratch the
bare chest of a parchment. Fazed by a magenta shading the tarpaulin over Faridarhʼs pupils, I saw her
mirror landlording her smile under the line of a silk vanilla scaffold of her dome. I knew I wasnʼt the perfect cheap thrill! Maybe it was the headless & the shirtless body of a sultry lady backing an eloquent
fashion of annealed glasses. Theyʼre eloquent— because they could convey the reflection of bodies well like HDMIs. In the second photograph, she posed behind the lining of a cuboid: in it, a mannequin is
unconsciously made to take water; consciously, it folds the undulations into its web of psionics.
I redipped the torso of the mannequin into the body of the water in the third photograph. Like
mountain laurels overwhelmed by darkness only to be silent, it sank rebronzing its off-white nose. In
the fourth photograph, Faridarh writhes under the concaved roof of her bluetooth headphone
offglided to a wreck on her ears. Do you know, it was To Pimp a Butterfly? Kendrick?— what she confessed, just now, realizing why her noun was swallowed by another paragraph of this poem. In the
fifth photograph: before I tell you about it, just know my body was a billion rooms of empty guests. The
polaroid opened up its mouth to squirt white light to my body for my portion in this photograph. My
body eats up the light on a vantage point. I was staring at something. A soft palate of abstraction—
I wanted to grab it to tell if I would return back to Independence road as one of those mannequins—
seeing but canʼt see. I saw but couldnʼt see an explosion of the sun on Faridarhʼs jawbone. Its debris
was scattered to the creasings on her beige cheeks. In the sixth photograph, we opened the arms of the
store for it to spit out our complete somas. & she told me she aspired to be a BuzzFeeder. & I told her I
wanted to be Van Gogh. I told her I could place her into a color— then, around her would be the color
of white dwarfs wishing to be called back to a party theyʼll miss in the sky filled with mannequins of
their likeness. So are you saying the stars are mannequins too? Whilst reading, she asked. Yes, they see, but
donʼt see the contusions of impermanence weighing on our palms. The director waved the clapperboard
speaking his words for him. Iʼm not interspersed. Iʼve no intervisibility. Can you drizzle a star ʼs grip on
my tongue as i make a wish? Whilst reading, she asked.