she rambled through midnight,
shoes more white-tar *****
than black leather,

avoiding destinations,
washed palms
not unfamiliar with
stakes being grounded
near the wrong type of hearth.

standing half-drunk,
on scorched oxygen epilogues,
her cheeks deserted,
feet knuckling homeward,

wrists unveiled by calamities,
she’d pour shrapnel
into her scrapes,
wrongs cast in iron,

and
he would trace
her scars like
a roadmap,
but always left
by morning—

twilight strangers
in a cold, perfect sunset.
freckles holy,
lights heady,
moon painfully
indifferent.