Do you remember
that spring in France
where the saffron sky fell?


The black and white photograph
where your cheek has collected
yellow dust,
and your wine-stained lip
is of no color.

Do you remember
the bleeding arms of the
tired maroon moon,
at which we'd tilt our heads
to feel it weep
into our eye?

Do you remember
the grass stains
on our knees
from lying in
satin dirt,
the murky mornings which
tore the lemon skin of
the slumberous sun?

Do you remember,
the quiet laugh
I'd spill
when you'd make fun of
the old French man's voice,
and the funny freckles that
played on his flesh?

I remember
that photograph
you took,
where the light revealed
your lifeless body
underneath the auburn tree,
where the city saves
its breath,
for your lungs to breathe.

 
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