we're sitting in a car.
not any old car, but this one.
an orange '73 camaro,
rather ugly if you ask me.

my heart settles into this home,
a happy, lazy contentment
a bee drifts past the car
in summer breeze,
bringing along with it
the pretty scent of tulips.

you're sitting there,
a beautiful boy, i suppose,
and you're smiling.

my heart is going to jump out of my chest.

moonlight dances
across the pavement.
birds flying in
great sweeping dives,
the night air is harsh against my skin.
I am bare.
the old wheel underneath the
deck is rusting,
a *****, rotting red that seeps into
the dirt below it.
undeterred, the faded yellow
glow of the streetlights
washes the neighbor's flowers
in a pale blanket.
and then I am running.
running, thrashing, hurtling,
against the black backdrop.
my heart growing trees.
my heart a weeping willow.
****** cuts cover my feet,
infected by the mud splattered
against my flushed skin.
it's wild,
this chase.

every time you
come around i think
the sun rises just a little

as if to see a little further over
the low-hanging horizon

as if to cast another green over
our shoulders, draping us in
timelessness

then hesitates—
then falls to the depth
of earth:

and you're leaving.

there is no reconciliation.
we're bleeding like paint
in the rain—
wilting flowers
colourless in
our greys.

sometimes your eyes
double, your words
curl my cheek, still lingering
to brush stray strands.

i'm open inside out;
when you turn away
i know the hinges are closing.

we're spinning.
spinning.
spinning.
in the next instant,
it's gone.
the fading laughter is still caught in my throat.