we sat underneath the gangly branches

and counted the crystals in the indigo sky

the kind of shade that would fade with wash, right?

you nodded. yes, or so i assumed.

I sat there gazing at your porcelain stance

you, into my bare soul.

The fresh smell of liquid iron burned me inside and out

the open wound bore something that was yearning

but my plastered ribs could not bare the weight

and all that's left now

are those gangly branches that once embraced

faded skies and petals-like crushed nails-

fill the thin air.

And there are no more nods

for me to assume.

No form was left-the organ stolen:

All that was there was dust.