effervescence seeps through stitches in that sweatshirt
he is alive and he is here
(but more so than the rest)


sustenance slips 'tween sutures in that stark snowy skin
he is drained and he is leaving
(I taste the lethargy on his tongue between my lips)


Syrup sinks towards an already scarred stomach
he is trying to fix it, I can tell
(since the butterflies riot, the purple tastes like honey)