She had a dream.
A dream with a grainy filter.
Her skies were a subtle blue.
Her oceans a cold gray.
Like glassy mirrors without reflections

We always sat on the stony countertops
On the fifteenth floor of your empty apartment
Where the sound of your Chantal tea kettle roared over our hollow conversations.

Our lives were simple when it was just the two of us.
You'd let your hair fall into its natural mold,
Running four fingers through it,
Changing the part between sips from your teal, sculpted mug.
You tuck one ankle under a skeletal thigh,
Always keeping those black cigarette jeans cuffed.

The tea kettle finishes our flat conversations.
You no longer let your fine hair rest on the side of your neck.
You carry the teal mug, that carries tea that's run cold,
Always keeping those black cigarette jeans cuffed.