dappled sun on broken leaves
on the two sinking orange disks falling in the sky
we stagger to the burdensome old car
yank open a rusted door
collapse onto the oily leather seats
how do I explain this world to you, little one?
the one you, as I sit and hope with all, you will never have to come into
it has been a strange 6 years
since we came to this place
6 years of weeping in knee-high crackled grass
6 years of watching the skulls bleach
in the dappled sun

year 1
the year of dissonant wandering
the year we met each other
we sit in the pink marbled building
lounging in the ignorance before the fall
light cool air envelops us
as we sink into a profound evening of solitude
the puzzle pieces hurtle together a little more
slowly now

year 2
discovery is paramount at this point
we need to move forward; move out
of this speckled and battered host planet
i cling to him, warped and desperate
i would have laughed at myself
the vessel itself is metallic
a cold, steel blanket
thrumming around our twisted forms
my hand against the round window
one last time, sing for what you love

year 3
i miss the most inconsequential things
the way the brown clods of dirt used to feel
soft, heavy and damp
the weight of water shifting inside a bottle
life unfolded in the most unusual of ways
light glinting off the rippled surface of a tin shack
a woman in the seat in front of my rolls her tongue around a pink lollipop
an odd leftover of a forgotten childhood

year 4
they say that this place won’t be home for long
the shifting will continue onwards and onwards,
a march to the land of the two rising disks
i want to go back
i shy away from newness
the plastic taste in my mouth
bodies scrubbed clean and clad in white
the military order to our meals and days
i miss thriving chaos

year 5
home is barren, the hollow and miserable
testament to green and blue
the old, dirty street finds itself completely empty
if i move along the reel to years ago
i find myself again on the old, dirty street
clinging onto a tan, worn hand with a smaller one
the bazaar stretching its roots through
the sprawling city spread
heap of soft, red powder rests in a wooden bowl
milky eyes study from the corner of an alcove
this was us before now

year 6
i have come to the end of my story for you
resting in the oily seat of an old car
tears sliding down onto the leather of the door,
tracks in the dust
raised hand, a monolith in the weak
afternoon light
they should be coming any minute now
i have never felt more
connected to the vast loneliness where
we curl like withered leaves