after the streetlights stopped grieving

that one winter
the street lights bled
what glow they had left
into our hands
instead of the night sky
and we’d feel the regret it held
and the relief in dying
or succumbing to the inevitable
and sometimes we’d cry
because it made us warm
for the first time in years
and because there weren’t many stars anymore
and the moon seemed in disrepair too
and in time
we couldn’t see each others faces anymore
even though we hadn’t in years anyway

though we felt the crevices that grew like tree roots
and thought about how we couldn’t remember that story dad used to tell
and wondered if it was buried somewhere in one of the sagging fault lines
or the pool of flies
whose wings sometimes made it hard to see
but didn’t ever reach to find out

because all we could think about was that street light
and the resentment it held
or if it held anything at all