Play it slow-
not for romance,
but because the strings are blistered,
and every note splits the sky
with fire.
Stroll through the panic,
it’s routine:
duct tape on the windows,
radio on low,
a list of missing birds
tacked to the wall
like fallen saints.
You said you'd carry me,
but the world’s gone grey,
and the olive tree
is just smoke now.
There’s no audience left.
Just wind
and its thousand-watt warning.
Still, your spine curves to the rhythm
like a fever dream from Babylon,
hips like warning sirens,
ankles sunk in ash.
I want to understand
what we ruined,
but only at a drumbeat I can hear,
only with eyes closed.
There was a time
we dressed like lovers.
Now it’s mylar blankets
and filtered masks.
We knew the promise;
we broke it anyway,
above it,
beneath it,
inside it.
Someone keeps whispering
about children,
as if hope still blooms
in poisoned soil.
Play it slow,
with bare hands if you must.
But don’t pretend this isn’t a requiem.
Don’t dress it up in velvet or vows.
Just let the music float
and burn,
like everything else.
SoCal climate: golden skies, ash in your lungs, beauty on fire.