• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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The nights were Catherine wheels
burning through my weeks.

Monday jumped over Tuesday,
Friday flipped behind Thursday
and lingered under Sunday

like the crumbling stench of gunpowder
in the corners of November nostrils.

Your skin was the sky,
stretched like toffee
over the flesh of rotting apples.

I traced my fingers
around the shape of dead stars

like unlit sparklers
doing their best.