the death of me goes with you too, where sometimes I can see breath pause
when you think everything else is moving / it’s all in the way you receive
light and indent your buds directly into the earth – leaping as if one of us
were to fall asleep inside sunbeams to the tune of screaming bluebirds giving
birth one last taste of honey whose magic you stole from the slowest flower
in the garden, witnessing her wings when they slid shut after cough syrup
swarmed the constant dissociation ruining my youth, wet with August and
cold hands / cold mouth, pressing apologies into apples.