flowering edible tears
in my taste of what may have been
if the arrows never looked down.
i will write between his songs, but,
i space out within her lyrics.
i have new glasses and
i am stagnant as Mona Lisa's statue, in paint.
i am see-through as her, never was before,
painting.
i am smiling through glass jail cells.
i am an empty walk towards it with a dark red;
a light black.
an immediate space that does not exist.
postwar; it ended with exasperated colors
crying out for midnight air.
stabilized red eyes and
red bruises
and red where red was never to go.
i love her full moon ritual as much
as i love her empty staircase hair.
my duty is to fly
with her on my
open
back.
