We have met in the morning, tired and guilty,
in the somnolent bus. You liked the way we fought
against its steep anthills;
the way the lilac sky outside
would drown itself under our feet.
With you, I blocked the whisper of the rotting leaves,
which danced and jeered in the window,
they promised me a white and straggly autumn,
against the haze of my homecoming.
To you, I hanged my silky curtains,
with flowers calling, then to die
around my neck, around your shoulders,
such pretty roses, tinkling cross.
But Red is rising, you have finger painted
my pain and waist into the blue,
I lit the candles, they quit trying
to outshine the rampant moon.
He didn't linger to remember,
he took me in the little sips,
and so I stretch, with red October
burnt clumsily into my swollen lips.