The Color of Gone

Tornadoes dressed as angels. In the politics of love we flounder. One touch a rider on the next bill. If I was your lover so be it. If I loved you so what. Purple bruises turning blue. on flaccid skin. The warm blanket of seduction turning raisins into grapes again.

There's a stockholm syndrome in every instance of affection. The varnish of time turning broken hearts into friends. As if those pawns were enough to mate. Purchase that victory from the wolves.

In little rages. In borrowed friends. I named them One by one. Until I could hear myself crying. Negotiating with the distance between now and then. Trying to explain to it why the world was gone.