they cannot breathebut they can seethe trees turn greenand the colorof the lake doesn’tmatter. they remember

the color

leaving their face,

their body


and their tired eyes.

they force them open

despite the iceberg

weighing them closed.


they remember nights

and days of

punctured hearts,

filled with sand

and pressed with

books. In between the

pages of red veins and

redwoods, their

most fragile part lays

open. dissected carefully,

yet grounded to a pulp.


before that, they

can recall the sun

scraping their face

and turning the corners

of their lips. nothing but

shining, white diamonds.

bubbles in their stomach

cotton candy in their liver

our hands joined together.

our faces not apart,


i remember everything

but the domestic humidity

caused by flames,

fueled by distrust,

stemmed from conflict

unresolved with


it was aged like

a pumpkin

long after the last

day of October.


I cannot forget the

flowers I’ve lost forever

and the words I’ve

given to the river.

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