tuesday. the sky, a violent blue:
even the clouds begin to sigh.

a grim sort of heaven cascading—
uninvited, expected—into our negative space.

it says, youth is poison.

youth is the colour of a forest fire.

the small of my back retains the warmth from before
and i am thinking, for us both: the misery of a body.

the late afternoon exudes with such tragedy
that our words can hardly contain them.