The first poet ever must’ve felt it too: you’re here in the album
         playing on my phone
because it’s you who wrote this song. It plays exactly like your trip
         to Japan and like
all the lifestyles you promised me you saw there with the eye
         wishing to migrate.
Some paintings use lemon juice to reveal newer tones with a bit
         of heat. I squeeze that
memory like an impatient listener: it runs through my burned
         chest laying in my
bed as I think of the lemons in every cocktail I have had.
         You’re the first ever
Mario Kart beating I’ve gotten and I still want to form the same
         musical symbols
you create daily. Everyone thinks you’re an introverted Sun.