I am a burning, fragile spine,
a dark pinch of art,
spending all hours of the night
waiting for familiar aches,
while the embers glow dimly
in my heart

we seek beauty in our mortality,
in the circulation of the human blood
the agony of life lingers in our veins and
heats our frozen hearts,
and we find love in
the longing for death

my subtle heart is pounding
in a bell jar full of memoirs
as it falls from the heavy sky
- the last summer of stone

red was the blood, like blossoms in July
orange tinted lips, the ones that told me good bye
yellow was the stairwell, the last place you went
green was your text, the last text you sent
blue were your tears, shimmering like gold
purple was your face as your body lay cold
white were the lilies, for which you were named
white were the lilies, the ones I lay on your grave.