Wetting the Ash

The trial behind--now to put feet forward on busted pavement--at this point we stare at the smoldering remnants of the brink we tasted. We've wet the ash with our tears, and now we seek to rebuild ourselves into crystalline sweetness. She hasn't said anything while I smoke, I haven't said anything as she obliterates mango sorbet. A compromise, a relief--of the old fires--an exhale, a release--in preparation for the next field to give up. Friday we aim to take party pills, get drunk, get confessional, collapse in the lawn outside my apartment and wait on responsibility to have its way with us.