red balloons against
an orange sunset
rising like angels
floating to high skies
celebrated us
more honestly than
last night’s masquerade
of a party had.
Between pen and ink,
plain paper and screens,
I’ve lived a thousand
raw snowflake lifetimes.
But nowhere in that
vast expanse of white
did I dream of this
reality check.
Late nights, weeks or worlds
apart, we’d sailed on
until my text beeps
were background noise and
traffic drowned your calls.
‘I’ll call you back’ was
the grey cloud cushion;
the lie I sat on.
When finality
struck like rogue lightning
blue, gold and twisted,
the air smelled of burnt decades
and indifference.
The fall was gentle
because time stood still.
It rained like the world
were ending that night.
Sad balloons wagged strings
like restless puppies
caged by the ceiling.
Rose bouquets sprinkled
with fake fragrances
lay strewn on the floor
along with broken
bottles of champagne.
We’re tainted saints now,
reeking of errors
just like humans do.
So I let them go,
the balloons and us,
from the balcony
on the north west with
a seventh floor view.
I watched them soar high
into the scarlet
sunset, like throbbing
hearts finally free.
You looked up from the
proud grey street below.