by Nathan Alford
It was about 7 when I moved from there
The night had grown blurry and fragmented,
Memory breaking off the way paper does when it’s wet.
Amalgamation of purple light shone behind you,
Nothing good, of course, happens in this way.
I too was looking for a miracle, in the swollen night.
I refused water, and touched your chin.
It wasn’t cold, but I held your pulse close.
Wet pink muscles began looking for what we never had.
But in spite of, or because of, God knows
We have stumbled into morning.
Thumbnail image by Annie Kopack.