I flipped you and I found yellow ryegrasses,

retired into cocktail sunsets. 

And it didn’t bother me that much, 

but I wondered how you could sleep over rotten corpses and make every corner of our square feet a shimmering outburst. 

you didn’t know whether you were drowning or you were free falling through oceans full of neons, 

that was your idea of taking knives to your throats and making bloody affairs. 

We had to leave each other, 

we had to make promises of goodbyes. 

If there’s no prolific inspirations, if there’s no bottles to keep your snows, 

I say I am still waiting to hold them for you.

……………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.