we fell
like pock-marked meteors
barely surviving on star dust and satellite corpses
but falling from angel-high skyscapes, screaming
with fire and dancing in the exhaust tails of our
own descent. we exalted in the
beauty of our ruin
as our hair burst into flame
and our skin melted to our bones
in the final stages of
termination,
and we wore burning lily wreaths
as our halos
(tarnished, but glowing
like the dilating pupils in our
fevered eyes). we were flying on wings of wax
but we knew all along
that the sun was growing broader
with every beat and breath that flung us
closer to eternity in a moment and then
de-
construction,
molecules darting back to their own messy orbits
as we fell apart.