she told me stories

i painted them in black and white

colours were a child’s innocence anyway

-

she said to pray on my knees

for how else could i be heard

than when bruised and broken

-

i never loved the light—

hard to see when your vision’s blurred

and the shadows grew longer and blacker than sin

-

so—

when the edges began to fray

and colours turned to evanescent grey

pictures became our memories.

but all that we remembered

was throwing away the keys.

-

and maps never really helped us after all—

because it was only the winter before the fall