Cacophonies, Constellations, and Cigarette Butts like Stars #4

You told me that by the time we died

(together, of course)

The daisies would already have left the meadows ahead of us-

That’s why you always flick ash

On sulfuric Sundays into the dirt.

Your words felt like

A kiss on the mouth,

Like sunbursts,

Like a rebellion against everything I had ever believed.

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