Hailey Erin.

"The sky is purple," you said, hanging out your window sill, Eyes-Wide
Wickery-white, peeling paint
And the awe steeping, pouring air like ice
So we could see our breath.

It was during the twilight fade in your layered coat
Plaids and dots bickering in low, soothing voices
Mirah leaking-light through your cracked door
That I stored you away
as my idea of how happiness should feel
Like the smell of newspaper burning in La Mesa,
Or the electricity of skin on skin.

-H.Y.

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