. . .

This night will stay
Clothed in your miasma

I'll go down deep
In dim red lights,
Finger the edges
Of a ticking time-bomb,
And carry my lust
In fistfuls of air.

What would I know
Of love? Of loss?

I only wanted your orange in azure,
Above a swelling tide.
The sand instead waits
Yearning, dry.

An honest disaster,
I'll collect my frayed edges,
As water, spilled.
I'll apologize, disappear.

--Alicia (2012)