steps ascend to a loaded gun. the scent of matches hangs in the air (a lit one flickers out in a hearbeat). we dont want to see this: a flash of light thats letting go of an empty bullet case, by the time it hits the ground, hes out of reach. let go. the wolves are closing in. theres no room left to make amends. do you remember when wed fly that kite so high? all the time weve wasted, spent fighting, will burn in the fire of our regrets all the time weve wasted, spent fighting, its blood and its running down the stairs. freeze the frame between the gun shot and the hole it makes. a spinning bullet waits in the middle. theres no way to stop it, it will surely hit the mark. you can try to understand but Im giving up. the synapse fires, its right in time. Im giving up. this should always stay out of reach I ran down the stairs and into the garden, put both my hands into the soil. in the spring, you will bloom, like her heart, through the blouse, in the back of the ambulance, as it turned and turned in the streets (just one more turn wont you come back to me) as it turned on its red lights, you were turning into red roses but Im not giving up.
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