Rain and is thin, and the term sunset is under fierce debate between the glass of our balcony door and the electricity of the skyline. But your small and easy eyes, made of fog and ink, have invented in them the most profound awareness of the moment. I open the balcony door, and the typhoon becomes my hair.
Later, I’ll almost lose my sense of belonging. You’d trade me in for a sun coin, if you hadn’t already. One to hold in your white palm, cold as if alive. And it’d stay in your pocket. Every time you’d feel it between your fingers remember the gold glint off the clean edge.
The glint will remind you of a tin
time,
Time leaves and the ocean on the orange horizon is licking up the sun into lines, but it is the sky who has the largest, darkest mouth. no one wanted this,
sitting in a vat of cold
oil, wishing for a Friday.
