scrape my cheek, let the salt fall into your hands. i paint my eyes in the burnt palette of your contingency plan with which we stumble forth, flecks of ash to each lash that blind us to the suns of other galaxies. there was an ocean here, long ago, but it evaporated with the ghosts of january whose spectral lips kissed (sucked) up every last drop. there’s air still left to breathe, yes, but the flames in our atmospheres have long since been
suffocated.
