Red hill that rose form the land as a vessel, as a breast, rich and withering. You are fading on top, stretching now more towards the evening sunlight than I have ever seen you. Among this snow you are God, a face.
My birthday is soon and I do not think I can see you. It has been months many months and now you are like a ghost swimming in this great big pool and the air has no sun, the pool is dark. Lingering slightly like freezing spit of the trails of blood in water, but there is no more light to watch your hair. My stomach is heavy at you.
I want there to be, wish there to be, but no bearing do I, moth, have grip to you.
You do not know me or do not wish to know me like a glutton and their angel. Not so special do I imply I am, in sin and glow, certainly my own shriveled angels remain.
I do miss, mourn you though.
Birth day. Forgetting this, understanding this, forgetting this, understanding.
Moth and flame am I
This, lonely, is birth enough.
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