She walks with the map

of someone else’s life shining from under

the roots of her hair

Time flies and nobody’s having fun.

she searches for joy as a pretext to write

indoors. The days die off

from light pollution and natural causes

she wastes her time

falling in love with accessible gods

stargazing and exchanging buzzwords

with men who hold their hearts in their hands

as they make their stillborn seductions.

I burn at both ends

I die off the calendar faster than August

But when I see her, I smile

There are grudges in her throat