it was raining and i didn't have an umbrella with me. you were all wet as well-- your cotton candy pink hair stuck to your forehead like long spider legs. why was it raining in december? you pulled out a magazine from your bag and covered your head with it, took a deep breath and ran across the street shrieking. you almost got hit by a compact car and you shrieked at it louder. something about you just screamed stupidity and fun. i will bring a big enough umbrella tomorrow. don't die too soon.

atlas—
your shoulders
crack and crumble;
dust and dirt fall from
the corners of your
aching joints; you are
ageing like stone.
your body, quivering,
is not made
of marble,
but the fissures
like tree roots on
your arms glimmer
gold and blue
and green—and
you are forced to
stand still, tall,
sturdy; as if
you were nothing
but a pillar,
reaching up to
heaven, grounded
forever to the earth.
atlas—
the weight of the
world is an anchor
on the curve of
your spine.
shaking, shaking,
like the scattered
rings of saturn—
oscillating.
atlas—
collapse.
atlas—
crumble, fragment;
dream of feathers
and dust and billowing
air, and all that is
light and gentle—
and melt.
atlas—
loosen your fingertips,
let the world slip
from your shivering
hands.
atlas—
even stone
can turn to dust.
atlas—
disintegrate.

Like fireworks that lit the sky one December night,they were two people that touched for only a brief moment and they burned and burned until there was nothing but cinders in their eyes.
Both were fires that burned to light the way for one another.
Maybe they just burned too bright and time  moved too fast,
Maybe she was his anchor, she kept him tethered, kept him there,steady and unable to move forward.
The world may never know, except for this:
"They" were as fleeting as time and their ephemeral words made it evident that both of them couldn't stay forever because even the brightest of lights die out—sometimes,far more early than others.
They weren't just fireworks—I know that now— each of them were forest fires and they burn for the other to provide warmth and light,oblivious to the destruction that they make.
They were forest fires.
And now all they are is rain and tears, drowning in an ocean of memories.
And as I write this,I can't help but think that in some ways this wasn't just the story of them,it was our story too: the story of us that never was and never will be.
-W.L.A.C

stars hang out at night
linen left to dry

red geraniums along the balconies
nodding, nodding
willing to agree to anything
just to keep their color

a gang of kids running through the streets
faceless pranksters
the moon a plate held before each face
who am i? saying who am i
running through the streets saying who am i

the shadows of the buildings
becoming cats that move away
the trees immobilized
left to stand alone in the dark
rubbing their bark from regret
like cicadas

oranges have more delicacy
softly falling, falling
in the groves
on the hills
softly eaten, eaten
by the earth
swallowed whole
as if by a snake
not earth
as if by millions
slithering in the groves at night
millions
stalking the oranges that fall softly
softly to the earth

hunting there in the groves
that form a ring around each town

My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

The way your tongue inevetably
Returns to the sharp edges of a
Chipped tooth

Despite your efforts
To keep it from cutting itself on
Something sharp, yours and

Broken.