Your shorts leave their handprints, not a bruise
but the color of a forest fire
where you fell asleep on your right side.

The pinks
as fine as through a fairy’s wing –
orange as when the sky is not a sunset but there is
some resemblance –
a sickly, burning, faded green
where you are not a tree

but you are not dead either, where the days
are ending
on you. The way someone gets when
he throws up, flames vomiting from somewhere
and your skin becomes the fumes.

Even inanimate objects
do not want you to forget them –
we rot other people just to leave our own mark.