I am afraid that angels will dissolve at the sight of grit. I am afraid that I cannot stomach an atmosphere.
we gathered there in the moonlight, and decided that there couldn't be an end to a thing as colorful as a rainbow. and so we undid our hair and threw off our shoes and ran towards the edge of gravity until the far ends of those spectra burnt us brown and hollow. we ached so much that time did not matter. days were shapes(palpitating hearts, I remember), the yellow and orange and red tired souls, sustained by fire.
so bright, so bright, it never could have rained. sepulchral; we lie crying, coiled on the concrete(the coal's left imprints behind, like gossamer wings, I wonder if it'll unwind our own charred truculence). from airplanes, traffic jams are strings and strings of christmas lights.
somewhere in the sky, there are people. they are alive.