by Perry Gasteiger
She burns like the sun on virgin eyes,
ripping through corneas
with the rage of dying stars.
Wretched destroyer,
mother of ash,
searing herself into the backs
of my eyelids;
my bone-bleached world trembles
at the shadows she etched
into the streets —
of nights set ablaze
with wine-soaked words
and cigarette butts,
of tear-stained cheeks
and I love you spat
between gritted teeth,
and dark mornings
where absence sleeps.
Cold pillows remind me
of brighter days, burning up
in the heat of her anger.
Perry Gasteiger is a writer.
