it pools in the hollows of your collarbone
slithering around your throat; choking—
awaiting for you to breathily atone.
the ink is still smoking.
the sorrow crouches in warped floorboards
quietly;
suffering like a minor chord
as i tactfully compose my external sobriety.
misfortune writes no script,
messes need to be cleaned—
you scrub at the silk until it rips
stained fingertips must be quarantined
it lingers like the scent of rotting roses,
blotting blood over static wounds
they think it helps if they impose.
i never thought i would lose lemonade
afternoons.
but
i
lost
the
sun
too.
(what happened to forever?)
