That night you stole nail polish from the back of my mind,
Rain sucked us in
like a gigantic whirlpool of not-being
and we weaved.
Dust landmarked the root of your brows.
Some fourth-dimension force, a thread
to whose gravitation we are defenceless.
We danced to a song of nineteen eighty four.
Nutrition facts plastered your Instagram page full.
We drew circles around the edges of time
lest children should fall, playing some game
in a big field of rye.
August dumped clouds in a bucket of Fall.
You left us
listening to some songs of nineteen-eighty four.
Rain faded but never died.