Done at Dawn
Holding the sunset a while on her shoulders, draped in the fleshy pink of a plush plum's guts. A rainbow of something like sunburn, sullied hills of hues hot from the illumination of. I slide the colors off her like a cape. To the floor. And I slide her to the floor. We make a mess of the plum sunset before going to bed. We carry what's left to the sheets. I wake up purple and out of love. Dawn just isn't the same, I tell her over the sound of her sleep. She'll never know.