I am laced up in black. Spurs skidding sparks at my heels, striding up a leaf-smothered hill during the golden hour. Sun splayed upon my cheekbones, holding hands with my long shadow, grenade-pin heart, and brewing eyebrows.
I am forgetting what it sounds like to lean into your slinking shoulder, covering the aroma of your neck's skin with coffee grounds and wolfsbane too ardent to taste like your mouth.
I am humming to myself, juicy and thick, to slice your silence into fragments that disintegrate ashen through my fingertips. Just like the parting look you gave me, sterile-eyed and hazy.
I am all splinters and sinkholes, a tragic reminder that things do not remain intact especially when you chase them. My lips are glued to the horizon, begging the sun to watch the dance of the moon, enchanted and writhing.