A doomed relationship in which word fail, and distance is meaured by what is available: a window, a yard, birds, blood.
There’s a smear of blood
on the window, and I smile.
It’s a comforting shade of red,
a color that always smooths
the wrinkles of my soul and
flies me to the moon and back.
She paces in the front yard,
holding counsel with mocking
birds and cardinals, not seeing
the disparity between the two.
I hold my breath and go for a
new world record, but I have no
witness, so I rap on the window.
I see her through the red tint,
her head bowed as if praying,
while my lungs give in to fire.