Death has a strange taste. And I burn with it. I crawl. The wrong way up an escalator. That the flesh of my mind creeps, begs, bargains, rages. Blind with unusable poetry. I weep your smile into obsidian feathers. Forsaken. Fallen. And everything burns. Everything. In the fall. Stars run aground, broken on the rocks of that dull sunrise while I search for the comfort of your face in the jetsam. The salt outline is drawn. And I burn. Grabbing at that last, blinkered line of string. Wrapped in a thousand white flags, I am held against the wall. You burn in me. You burn me. You burn. You, who set the fuse to brimstone coals in my blood. And oh how I would hold that fire like a lantern to my heart. But even the cherished saccharin of light lags behind, afraid to touch the space. Where you were.