We are in the slums of August.

Cigarette smoke trapped between pauses

on the verge of a storm.

Everything waiting to happen,

silence stretched too long,

deconstruct this city.

I look at you for decades and your words

melt in this subtropical heat.

Dark green skin, dark green lips. 

You say “I want to stay,” softer than anything I’ll ever worship, but

I glance out of the window to trace that dying bird

fleeing, and know.