I’ve never met a hill I wouldn’t die on. You were several marked by paths you now deprive me of and sparsely dotted next to riverbeds
the pelicans can no longer drink near.
We pass the Rhône and imagine starless nights unpainted. The uninteresting forever unaccounted for by a canvas they refused to etch across.
I miss the one I beg to form the Pleiades. She too fades away with the night.
Lonely boats row in pairs. I flicker as the observant streetlamp passed under.
Your quick reprieve on the waves. My photons brushing against tender skin.
The fog grows thicker over Arles. The smoke cruel cut and in my sclera. Cold
shatters the panes.