“When the past don’t last,
immortality makes you wonder…”
We called her a potter because
she was always burnin’ bowls;
the scorched earth the colour
of her tortured soul.
As our souls collided in the street,
free of fright, evading the clash of titans inside,
we choreographed our exile to the strobe
of the moon’s artificial light.
She, with oracular insight—she, without
a qualm or shame—she took her boots off;
she had the gall to name each part of
my face that cracked when her hot pop quizzed
my spark without a flame. We ran toward the dawn—
t(w)o vases vacant—she seemed the fulfillment;
a prophecy so (s)pray-pa(i)nted, her pain penetrated
my surface, tonight served us only to white-out the plain
you can only love as much as you love
yourself. If no one’s left, when all’s said,
what else can we do to convince each of
you of what love’s ignited in us?
“…are we who we are, or just
the categories we fall under?”