The sombre glow of a dying sun,
that dimly fails to illuminate.
Let us talk of the plans we’ve made,
over chemicals that kill us.

Sombre talk, your eyes aglow,
tell me all you ruminate.
We’ll chatter about maybes,
with definites in our past.

The glimmer of a strangeness,
that can never be translated.
We’ll define our parallels,
in the bubbles that we made.

The hopeful glow of morning
wakes me from a slumber.
I do not remember falling,
and we’ve forgot our failures.