yesterday. He's a blazing
heatwave. Her emerald-green grass
cut down to hay. His sidewalk you can fry

an egg. She walked across and burned
her feet. Blisters popped
every chance they meet. She singed

herself dancing in fire. When you run so fast
you're bound tire. She was spring once,
in full bloom. Her sweetness filling

every room, spilled perfume. He was thirsty from
the draught. Hung-over with mouth hung out. She
nursed him back to health. But this sickness

you cannot see. No, this sickness did not
leave. It was their shadow. Hanging on, wrapping
around them as a cloak, sticking to them as

egg-yolk in the frying pan. Some call this the stuff
fairy tales are made of. A slave to the dance,
the sickness, the trance. The heat, the high.

She's not as she is. She's not herself.
And she's not his.