false hope

written 25.4.25

posted 26.4.25

“maybe when the smoke clears,

we’ll go back south.”

maybe when the smoke clears, 

i will wrap my fingers in your silk

instead of around the grip

of a soldering tool or gun.

maybe when the smoke clears, 

rough hands will cradle newborn skin.

yet now,

i lie at your grave

like a thousand weeping dogs.