Subject

A reflected sunset
drowns inside
twin black holes.

Her thin fingers
slip down
rusted iron bars;
her palms
come away blushing with
unwanted crimson
snowflakes.

She wore petrichor
for perfume
when he found her -
he simply
cloaked himself
in rot.

Now
blood drops,
like tears,
splash
against stone -
gnaw the earth
deep -
the Institute
must have it.

He calls himself
reviver,
but when he
speaks her name
his words are
a pale horse's
hoofbeats,
and her throat
a garden
overgrown
with bitter
weeds.