These letters spill over our pages, aerosoled
in featherstorms of raised voices and wastepaper thoughts,
needlessly bereft of a cushioned farewell –
disposable, bruised, and de-winged;
the final chapter flailing its arms in a vastness of space
so inspiring
were it not for the rush of an ending approaching too soon.

Rain falls (tears, perhaps)
and our story now rusts itself closed,
finally embalmed within white noise and salty waters, and
blush-coloured fragments of doe-eyed corrosion; red,
as the deafening lips
that decline to author any surrender.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 March, 2024