73 i grieve the pink clouds by Meghan Wells this coral color will mark your morn-marriage of next month. did you know, mom moved your from-infancy furniture out of your room across the hall from mine, plucking the plumes from one square wing. (while i was gone.) so now, i fly featherless—one stripped outstretched arm embracing the future. i still lean on my canopy-less bed, a twin replica without resonance. it’s just another echo bleeding from this rusting light, like the echo of our mom’s bare fourth finger, the echo of the texts i deleted from dad, the one from the dog collars hanging from the hook, from the shaken-out photo frames and the hollow cavern of your dust-dissonant guitar. i… can still hear your honda tires scraping from the cement driveway. the truth is, you drove to college, and then i did, and our childhood evaporated in the exhaust. or maybe it did before—i don’t know. ask him. (i can’t.) but now, in your apartment (cluttered by cardboard) we sit on the carpet. you cuddle your cat with one diamond-glint hand as we wait for day, scarlet as my swollen swallow, to dawn into dusk. and for the next day to trip over the night. this onsetting sunset season suspends us, red rays glazing the glass and staining our faces. i’ll say it— (i miss you) “i’m happy, happy for you.” “i know,” you reply. and you and i tilted in time lean on the pane and watch sunlight die.
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