Fireflies had their hearts torn out. Carcasses lay bobbing on crescendos. We had a pockmarked sky. We had stars that had burnt out.
My hands were seaweeds.
Sometimes when the rain falls hesitant on my vertebrae, I stuff my screams in time and knit nostalgia. From the walls of my arteries, all those old songs you sung to me late night recall themselves with their meanings misplaced. Music drips like wax on the roots of my hair. Our silence smolders the limitlessness between us.
I wait for him to reclaim my soul.
Quietly the darkness rises. Quietly I float in the depths of Lethe.
It was a night of storms when he took back his promise and left.