Movie Poem by Sam Distefano
A car. Tan interior. BOY A drives, one hand on the wheel and the other resting in his lap. Sun bleeds through windshield. Cut to a movie theater. Tight shot on the heads of two boys from behind, the movie screen lighting them from the opposite side of the us, the viewers, creating two black boy-shaped objects. They are BOY A and BOY B. BOY A looks over, now in profile, BOY B returning the look, and their silhouettes kiss. Cut back to car. BOY A is fiddling with the radio. He is crossing a bridge in his car. Cut to the speedometer. BOY A is speeding. Cut to BOY A and BOY B walking down a sidewalk, off center. Night, but the streetlights make shadows with the trees. We are in another city, another time. They are laughing. They are happy. Cut back to the car. BOY A is thinking of how many feet of the ground the bridge is, if anyone else has ever driven off while changing the radio station. The viewer knows this, but they aren’t sure how. Cut to a tight shot on lips, kissing, tongues, hips knocking together, skin, hair, hands. But only for a second. Cut to a tight shot on the rearview mirror. BOY A isn’t moving but we see the car still is, the world still is. Cut to a shot of BOY B. Interior, warm, home. A dejected look on his face, tears in his eyes. Framed by the outline of a dark doorway. Cut to BOY A, in the same room, panting, angry looking. They are no longer in frame together. Something has broken. No one is laughing. Cut to the car. It’s stopped. It’s empty. Tan interior. Cut to a shot of the sky, the bleeding sun. The viewer isn’t moving, the world still is.
Sam Distefano is a graphic designer and content creator in Upstate New York. @numbestskull