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steps ascend to a loaded gun. the scent of matches hangs in the air (a lit one flickers out in a hearbeat). we don't want to see this: a flash of light that's letting go of an empty bullet case, by the time it hits the ground, he's out of reach. let go. the wolves are closing in. there's no room left to make amends. do you remember when we'd fly that kite so high? all the time we've wasted, spent fighting, will burn in the fire of our regrets all the time we've wasted, spent fighting, it's blood and it's running down the stairs. freeze the frame between the gun shot and the hole it makes. a spinning bullet waits in the middle. there's no way to stop it, it will surely hit the mark. you can try to understand but I'm giving up. the synapse fires, it's right in time. I'm 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 won't you come back to me) as it turned on its red lights, you were turning into red roses but I'm not giving up.
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