Sunset painted your eyes in a color,
I've never seen before.
Red streams in the trickle of love;
Fairytales under the beat of your heart;
A few regrets neatly folded, a few
monologues stacked in the shoebox.
Our neverland sleeps in the sunflowers of the August heat.
We've been dreaming about wasted
summers and drunken bonfires.
We've buried the poets under the cherry tree.
A memory burns in the crushed ochre;
Faded summers of sky blue;
Of cigars and burning letters from your frozen past.
Our gardens bled on another 10th of August.
Red streams were the afterglow of our colored heartbreak.
We sang the songs of orange skies
and bleeding gardens,
Stale coffee and the way our cities
burned like the silver lining of your last sketch.
Skins melt into golden,
memories turn liquid in drunken temptations,
and houses of cards burn on the edge of dawn.
The blue lights feel so disgusting today.
Sunset never looked good upon us, much
like the song we sang in the silence.
We were the metaphors of levitation — the lipstick
stains on the white of your cardigan and a reek of moondust.
Our first desire in the autumn air — to die
in the violet rain and reverberate into
the cinnamon flesh of the tragedies that
died at half past midnight.
Promise me another autumn in the green of our hearts.
Another dead sunflower on my doorstep; the fall of a star.