The night had dumped

the moon on the hill.

I was going to drop your name in rose bushes.

Sleeping alone was a torture, when

anxiety shows its fangs

in drooping lids.

Mysterious calls come,

from nowhere, when you were standing

on the sharp edge. A crisp decision

had to be made.

You become gold, without crying

and expose yourself

in dim light― where day and night meet.

Who will talk

about the final descent,

when you will deceive yourself?

A soap bubble was

shooting skyward.