There are no more white dollhouses, electric black rain and red sand beneath, the jagged red rocks and slumbering red-infernos on the open water.
We're more silent than we've ever been, the gently falling wet-snow of Dostoevsky's novels, our clay-colored banks, the wreck of guilt, regret, remorse, a bitter agony and death-kneeling at God's feet, palms open, our surrender.
My accomplice has cats, she wore a new outfit for me, she says what I write makes her smile, I am unbearably smitten, it's not supposed to be like this, it's supposed to be like frozen clothes on a clothesline, my affection similar to that of a rabid dog, a secret sky full of exploding clouds.
I know why it's like this, why our criminal eyes meet, clothes on the floor, collapsing into bed together, warmth and a wet-wildness explored, it's because my heart has been broken so many times that it's finally open now.