cherry bluebells and the ground is dusted in delicate
blades of grass who claw at my bare thighs and sing
their song as they dance, glimmering gold light blue
shadows waving and twisting; delicate things, delicate
things that bleed under my nails. stained green. history
has passed us and the spot behind me is empty, barely
even warm. You sit on my side. You are fading aren’t you.
fading.