glow lamp

This is a projection
of my afterspace of you.

Letting and going and breathing
step by step, underneath a water dyed with the aftermath of silk and nights that wrinkle me in the bathtub.
Where no amount of gin and love songs frees open the clogged up ear drums and soapy pipes trying to gulp down my hair.

I am glowing slightly, under the efervescent lightbulb banging against my head. I am glowing slightly, under what I remember to be the colour of your eyes.

There are stories of the renaissance children spending their days soaked in colour, dyeing cloth for the rich. I want to be rich. I want to be a child. I want history to be slightly skewed and correct. There is nothing here that is correct. There is nothing in me; this empty bath of music and hope.

Somewhere through the bolted door, within my window, there is a trumpet coughing up blood and lips.
I want this night to be mine.