i imagine all sunsets taste the same: hard
salt, right in the centre of their yolk - the
same kind you'll find at the bottom of a teardrop
on a late Sunday afternoon when you realise
you've run out of goodbyes and run out of your
home to chase someone lost in the wind. the
plane steals across the horizon and you see it,
then suddenly there's salt in your blood and you
feel as if you've become your own sunset, trying
to eat that plane out of the sky while sinking into
the sea. and isn't the sea made out of your tears
and mine, at this point? why are you crying, you
know they will not hear you. they are too far away
by now.