a dialogue between two lovers.

 –What color is it.  
–Yellow dusting like tea leaves in Autumn.  
–Why does the moon only appear when you look for it.  
–When I climbed into the room that night, I saw you drenched in burgundy and smelling of cherry pits.  
–When do you leave.  
–I hitched a ride on a bus powered by wind.  
–Can this be our song.  
–Slow drip of rain slipped through clouds against the dirt of your window. Or the suction of your skinny against my heft.  
–Remember the time you curled your hips and climbed into me like buckets of ivy poured onto brick and our kisses were like stepping into a campfire. All that ember and soar of orange rinds called flames swaying.  
–No. But I can assure you that tomorrow is Sunday and I will do my best to still love you even though it does mark the end of this
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