she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.

"i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter"

we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.

that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.

you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.

"...reasons. things can have many..."

stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.

"the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film"

you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.

we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.