About the Ashes
Mnemosyne's colour wheel glitches through August,
on that candid orange the dogs howled into
during our autumn countdown.
When we still had a countdown.
When we still had August.
I remember the moonlight traveling westward
and seeing your face lined with silver.
I remember Artemis taking an emergency exit and landing,
landing in the closest pool of warmth. You, you, you.
And I remember dreaming. I remember testing
what the world was like outside of you.
The singed leaves remind me how to breathe
on this street, the same way you used to.
I am learning about the ashes.
Sometimes we must burn the atlas
before charting ourselves from scratch.
Sometimes love must die, first.
In heaven's attic, even angels lose their meaning.
Returning only, when someone remembers:
the attic is still a part of home.
When touching means dust on your fingers.
When suddenly, you are intruding.
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