The night had dumped
the moon on the hill.
I was going to drop your name in rose bushes.

Sleeping alone was a torture, when
anxiety shows its fangs
in drooping lids.

Mysterious calls come,
from nowhere, when you were standing
on the sharp edge. A crisp decision
had to be made.

You become gold, without crying
and expose yourself
in dim light― where day and night meet.

Who will talk
about the final descent,
when you will deceive yourself?

A soap bubble was
shooting skyward.