You wiggle towards the switchboard and now
We're half sitting in crimson light
Your hand wrapped around my stomach,
Head leaning on my bare arm-
We're almost lovers, only platonic;
You ask me if it's too heavy,
I call you fat and you let out a chuckle
like my little nephew's
when he wobbles towards me.

​

This is your third ever cigarette.
I might be completing my third chiliad of those,
And as the winter chill enters the room through the pocket-sized slit in your window,
I realize mine has one, too.
The song we were listening to
Slowly dips towards the end
Perhaps like a wilting, barley white daisy,
Almost ready to wither away,
Yet holding on.

You ask me if I want a chocolate,
I make a mention of how utterly macabre the song is
at the same time
You nod your head,
And so do I,
For different reasons;
As different as sage and lavender, you and I-
Crafted from the same palette,
Thrown away with scree.

​

There's a fleeting moment
Where I think what it would be like
When I Look Upon Your Grave
in autumn, as crisp fear lingers
on the ends of my hair,
And I take off the wrapper
While you dust away
Your worries,

panic

and ash.

​

​

You're not alone; Same Sun, Different Hue