The surface is a warm place.
The concrete is gone from beneath my toes
and the light is an orange-yellow;
your eyes are a blue azure
and the sky is similarly shaded.

I’ve heard of lightning
but I’ve never truly touched it.
I’ve drunken water
but I’ve never seen it fall.

You’ve spoken of clouds
but all I’ve breathed is smoke;
you’ve told me of cats
but I’ve always been the prey.

The sun sets down the horizon.

The dying star bleed beautifully in my eyes.
The day that death
can dress so wonderfully in my palms
is the day I will leave you
and kiss my own magpies in the spring.