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Burnt Sky.


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Vermilion sky ripens
between tree branches
with rotting cherries in their grasp, but
it?s all about him,
sitting across from me
on one
of the two benches in the boat.

The sun,
I noticed,
was feeling rather poor,
a measly color, splotched in places
and waning quickly; it didn?t catch in his hair
because of its weak state, but
it ran, like yolk,
over the strands.

I told him
things that I can?t remember
because if I was specific
he?d understand me.

I glanced up, because I?d been looking down;

meringue clouds absorbed
the sky?s ginger countenance,
fluffy and swollen above our heads.

Everything was sweet at once,
but then it started to rot/

and so
the clouds started to seep,
spilling a clear puss that
dripped on to the trees. The trees wept placenta
into the river, an afterbirth
of our bad day.

He kept rowing,
and I didn?t look back at him
until we reached shore;

I was sure, I was drowning
still. I think it?s just one of things
that happens when you least expect.

Like love. He?s like love,
and I?m lonely.
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