I’m caught in the middle of
two periods:
between black as death and
black as a violent
stormy day.

the kind that shut schools down,
threatened to take out
whole neighborhoods
with her incisive strikes of
roar and lightning,
emanating flood.
I suppose that would
make me in transition,
currently nestled
in a calm and mutable

it’s winter and I’m not
cloaked in night yet?
you’re taking the long way home;
passing by my
window for a peek of
my quivering candlelight,
my private worship,
my fire tongue
now burning itself to a
cinder, cooling with the drops
of pinprick blood
dripping down my
and I’m preparing to
skin the ash from myself,
drape in only white,
and twirl through these
cold months
with algid splendor.
I am seen by many,
but never touched.

for you, given our
history, that seems very
advantageous, and despite
my proclivity for sudden flight,
my growing meridian wings,
something is keeping me



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