The red tiled roof shivered while
we watched the wild autumn wind
paint a thousand silver stars
on a fresh charcoal black sky.

A few blazing beats later
I caught a falling star, but
it was just your hand in mine-
a soft, warm, pocket-sized wish.

The carnivals where amber lights
blurred wafting scents of buttered
corn and pink cotton candy,
were always my favourite.

Bubbles I blew from bottled
soap water all the way home
added a neon shine to
dusty familiar lanes.

Today, in the cloudless grey,
we sat inside a bubble
through which the world was tinted
so I saved us in a box.

It burst as soon as it touched
the walls of the prison cell;
love was a false metaphor
for the words we didn’t say.