I go out into the noir sunrise,
feeling the knife’s edge between summer and fall.
The pavement leeches my warmth
when it can’t find any in the sun.
Something has gone cold and we can all feel it,
even when we’re sweating.
I hunt for my joy,
the kind that sprints at the sight of me,
that pills and love can make room for but never make.
Its smile is bittersweet and its time short,
its body ethereal and its taste is of blood.
I make traps for it in words and alleys,
but it knows better than to be cornered.
It knows that once I find happiness,
I won’t ever want to let it go.
So it runs, unchained and coppermouthed.
Sometimes I think of it as cruel,
just a daydreamer that hasn’t fallen yet,
but I know that I’m selfish—
I’m the one trying to feed myself.
But I always go looking for it anyway,
already damned and already sorry.
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