afterwards

all
the empty
condom wrappers that collect
on the street,
every single voicemail
from them,
deleted,
that has gone to heaven,
and every other
single detail within the frames,
collected,

will collide
and mesh inside a jar
that is always open
within the outskirts
of your brain.

one day
when the voices
on the reel stops,
and after
everybody gets their
credit,

we will finally be able
to go home.