Scarlet neon on a puddle of day-end rain;
Moon shadow painting portraits on broken signboard lights.
‘Neath this starless sky I find scribbled constellations upon scribbled constellations
Breaking into universal sighs, the world breathing melancholically into the sun
Afternoons cold, her breath even colder;
The stars seem to be sketching no other thing but the glitter jazz that forms only in her eyes.



I wonder how she could simply drift away deeper into the galaxy,
How she could fly with her wings clipped down by the night.
Intangible and impalpable saxophones start playing as she cries and if she only knew
Then maybe she would have changed her mind.

I saw her the other day mind-absently staring at moving artworks
Her hands clasped by scalpels broken and bottles bruised
Feathers moving like her soul’s shadow as she sways her wings
And flies. She is an angel beyond any doubt.

But she did not want to leave the ground.

So she held dearly to a street lamp and hung on there for hours.
I would have saved her if I had not been working overtime
Writing about useless things such as lost love
And love most dated back in the archives of time.

It was when I had started my painting when she lost her grip and floated away into the sky.


But she eventually fell down into my arms again.






It must have been in mid-air when she realized that she could not walk among the clouds.
Not that she did not belong or anything, just that, her tears have been weighing her down.