from your hand red roses flew

from your hand red roses flew as you fell;
you closed your eyes and sang to the gods
with a colorless voice.

grey laughter tore your throat, purple
bruising the softness beneath your eyes.
fluorescent light washed your face white
and flat and clean, like untouched paper –

i still remember when my heart
beat against your hand with an
irregular rhythm: a lonely pulse one
second, constant humming for another five.

on gusty nights we shared a blanket and a
slice of cherry pie – warm, sweet and slightly
tart (like the taste of your lips), the same
muted red as the heat in your cheeks –
while my stomach grew full with your love.

on the morning after you stood at the kitchen sink
making coffee and breakfast. light poured through
the unbearable cold and soaked your bony bare arms,
which were hollow and bent, almost like the wings
of a bird poised for flight