he talked lots about Dadaism art

i understood not one thing about it

except that it was anti-art

like our relationship

was anti-commitment

or against the institution of marriage

we’d drink cherry wine

as the sky blushed pink

like i did the first time he said i was cute

the clouds were lavender

and airy—whimsical and fickle

like the dreams we’d formulate

for our future selves

occasionally he’d burn a disc for me

a mixtape of 80s and modern synth pop songs

all rambling in an absentminded manner

about love and only love

i’d think then that maybe it was time

to accept the inevitability of settling down

the shroud of cynicism that had veiled

my eyes since my parent’s separation

began to shred in half

from the bottom to top

but he was a Dadaist at heart

rebelling against historically constructed fashions

simply put:

i was another part of his ongoing artwork