In class calisthenics:
The mocking light of a streetlamp gazes on these flowers still kempt in a sunflower vase, It was the moon that hit your eyes as if the residue of a stagnant light throbbed and echoed through our bed where the two thin lines never pursed and the steely moonlight caught the edge of the mirror. I only love the grace my mother’s touch as the low hum of your abated breathe and the saturation of blood and non-adolescence premised our union, a trolley and its track could not undo the two words escaping your lips. You fear my whip of a nightingale’s feather, of a parade of churchgoers that silences us into quarantine. The paternal no longer rises against the bed of asphalt. Made unwise and swallowing the juiced hue as the prick of my nail upon the orange that is not. Shallow with sweat , with that ring on your finger, a warm bed never awaited us.
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