8

a dying ochre lights my way 

through pointed trees that lead astray.

the hot wax drips down my fingers, 

and burns the skin like golden splinters,

but in the midst of cold darkness

our mothlikeness are drawn to warm halos.

i rememeber waking alone

away from my bed

away from my house 

away from my head

and i rememeber chasing for angels in these barrens

to keep them in my jar, where divine fireflies 

would guide me in the dark.

they come to me in a yellow compass.

its getting colder, 

and im getting sicker,

and im wondering where he would be.

or if i will wake up in my childhood home