Respirate

There’s a dusty trail that leads to

the end of the world where every blade of 

grass isn’t green but 

has a scene of your lifetime

painted in microcosm and we 

walked to the cerulean edge but I couldn’t

look over the cliff so 

heavy boned, we lay beneath the giving tree,

just as it burst into flames,

or into fall,

basking in the dying warmth of almost october

I never needed reverence so badly

hands and lips and cheeks and 

something like healing

something like loving 

but perfectly,

not.