Winter Ice-cream

The butter pecan tastes less sweet on a cheeky afternoon in the sun, as I zoom into a picture of a man and woman, holding hands, running fast, dodging raindrops. I like it. We're musicians of the medieval era, where everything had fallen out of tune. Scowering our Sunday corner spaces, in my room, unfamiliar and unclean. It's getting trendy to stay stacked up with the promises that mean strength, intuition, and laughing with laughter.

The smell of goodbye is poison. I think I might sniff it first in your collars. It is what makes me cry right before I smile, and draws my cheeks taut, right before they slacken. It's the sinking of a sapient, off a deep edge- rising and falling with all shades of blue(s) and taste of mudslide. Would I, even as human as I am now, stay in character as bedrock moss? Dirt is living, or so I think. These algorithms that track me, make me feel less lonely; I chuckle whenever I think of the traces I have left behind everywhere.

In a big water body- the color of clouds, two swans craning their necks over to each other, form the letters BEG. I wonder, to what. For what. I throw a pebble, and then there's a ripple till the words disappear. I swallow colors one by one, the colors I saw you in, and the sunsets I dreamed you in, and the ocean I drowned you in. All while waiting for you to reinfect me. Is that a thing- where I write your name on a piece of paper and keep it in the locket around my neck, till it rots brittle & brown and the metal oxidizes to rust, a watermark to everything we will ever have?

I will love to watch your hair, sprouting differently in sunlight and moonlight, and in wind, laying in the backseat of a convertible, staring out through the open roof, at blue skies or the night, where I'm both chained and free. The bond of living things lies everywhere, both in my dismal memory and your unsteady embrace. The poison tastes like fresh butter pecan on a sunny afternoon, sweet but still deadly.