It bubbles from beneath.
A love story, a nightmare, a crack in the light, 
the blueberry patch on my skin I drew over with violets 
disappeared a long time ago
but I’m still bent and blue, this blue, 
still can’t tell if it’s twilight or trench, and whichever it is,
What’s the flight plan? 
Not for now,
For next time. I’m still recovering from the last long night.
Under the covers, a lighthouse of doom scrolls and murder mysteries and silent shuffled disasters
the last time we saw a sun together, how dead i was then
How alive i am now in the blue, this blue,
just minutes away from waking.
I watch a tiny wave roll over, frosted by moonlight, 
Like slow-blinking Venetian blinds, opening to the
first echo of the Pandorian box, 
signs of an unreachable divine spilling into this dimension, 
we grasp for real straws not the fake paper kind 
where you and I lie tangled in a web of figs not yet sweet
not yet ripe maybe never for the taking, 
threw ourselves into two blue infinites like satellites circling but never touching,
so different yet both the same shade of alone,
everything smaller and further, every feeling somehow bigger, more blue,
blue shimmers electric blue,
a single firefly spreads its light gossamer thin
to ease the disassembling stars,
morning blooms like my violet bruises 
and like teenagers we sneak through gently into the dying night.