She knows the door won’t open,
and it’s grown so late.
Too late to pull the robe back over her whiteness
and ignore the past hours.
Humming into the light
a cracked lullaby whose words escape her,
Spring tulips blossom from the fire.
She’s both the mother and the baby now.
The countdown has stopped marching.
Her writhing body slows its pace.
The overflow candlewax, drips then dries.
Oh, what time is it, my heart?
The division comes to show her
what she already knew in her breaths,
that a whore is just a lover with no safety net.
The burning of the wick coats her throat.
How can someone bitter your own words
or strangle you with your own tongue?
Contemplate and wander
between dying flickers.
(paired with “Evening Falls So Hard”)