she’s dangling down her chain link hair and lines across

my bedsheets

the scent lingering past her clean cuticles to her wrists, where

the tan would settle

those times, cut into box-like moments, when the bug net

(you know, the one with the holes)

would catch the sunlight like it was fruit in a summer

day jello.

the same day she arrived was the day that it came to be, as

the winds shifted and the clocks change

(not by one, but by two),

it’ll get a bit colder as the hours bleed together (just like the days do)

and the blues fade to grey, just like the old men

on the block’s end

and you, on the bedsheets.