crayons

Eventually her eyes –              tungsten

lights –

burn black and the sky            is black and the           grass

black.

I feel the                      moon its whiteness on a face

glinting dew.

I mistake this place                                         for childhood.

And you are,               back against the asphalt,

because

 you want to be,          when they burn out,

stare back

they,                are called memory.

Cotton sleeves frayed

a splash of

Velvet.

Cupcakes,

they say the heart is worn right there.

But I know

where it snows, bits    of

snow, tiny       little     bits of snow,

teenytinylittlebitty      bits of snow

sprinkles

just under the eye.

I touch right –

here

Sometimes the absence of tears is frightening

the way the sky

being blue and the grass

being green escapes us

the way you played with crayons

and forgot.

It is a frightening thing.

the soft word for dying.