You etched your violet lipstick across your heart
like a renaissance neon 80s rooster
welded to the brass frame around your almond eyes
You’re the worst, you said, offering me a playing card,
the two of whatever frozen like a Chrysanthemum
in an amber bottle stored behind your ribs.
Any other person would be as animated as a patch of grass
but you eschewed the idiosyncrasies of mannequins
coiled like a snake but swathed in Isabel Marant, darting out
from the corn fields, unfazed by the menacing swarm of
bees trailing your horizon; no one knew the end was near until we
spotted the left behind coat meant for your slow absence.