dust, maybe, never mine (redux)

"This picture I keep blurs into gasoline, burns until I nurse a blood nose and I am singing. I smile, and it stings, and I name the shapes, really, just chasing them back to smaller bones, thumbing at rings of so many taller trees. I hear autumn, my car keys, your lighter fluid and your eyes. Still, I have tried, to understand your sparrow pieces, and how they chip at mine."

—Ian William L.