Untitled.

Through the slopes and swells, halt and hallelujah, I know she would’ve
wanted me to partake in celebration. Reapply lipstick melted by tears;
sobbing to a screen.

She would’ve liked my shoes. I would’ve told her they’re Chanel.
Eager to see her eyes widen as I describe the consignment store
in Yorkville’s bowels.

So now I pin up my hair.

I think of her as I watch the lights out the car window. Sparkling blues against black cement,
burnt brick. Solace in unfamiliar faces out past midnight. They laugh, they run,
they pause in stoops to smoke. Hands cupped to protect their flames
from the brunt of December.  

In dark neon grief grips. Through celebration we mourn.
by Noel settling I watch the horizon, for your song.