warm hands pressed against the ceiling 

our sky, propped up with lustre assumptions

eight months weigh on six days 

the cracks appear in the concrete 

i press in my fingernails, make a moon on your palm

you make a pool on your pillow, and i make a sound

lost somewhere between 

a songbird and a traitor on the gallows 

i can't get the words out so you fill the spaces for me

i suggest the inevitable, you rewrite the beginning

skip over the middle – an empty kingfisher  dive all

speed and no grace 

angels are meant to scare mortals to

death i just thought you were beautiful 

perhaps a death in its own right, 

leaden wax wings and scorching light

Casper is a writer from Nottingham UK, and a student. You can also find his words in Thread/Fate (postghostpress). If you can't find him, he's probably crocheting or simply vibin'.