It’s one of those nights again.

The nights where a truckload of stars

carry themselves into my room

and I am left with leaflets of you.

I do not know what the aftertaste

of your lips tell me, but I know what

clings after I throw myself into it.

Two feral cats tearing each other apart

in recumbent positions.

We are here now, and we both know

what the tarot tells us. These muddy boots

of my searching for you in the darkened

corners of the afterlife. The quiet

corridors left with a hooting sound. Then hush.

I like to think I am made for this.

That the brushstroke made by the wind

has made us an ombré. Look through the sfumato

and tell me if you still see two colors.