hot tears

From dirt I rose into
the heat of the
burning flames at your bedside.

Your home—not lost
but on the run
no longer so scorned by our bright sun—
flies lower than a murder of crows 

I left
then was leaving 
when I was told not to

but you let so much of a river pass
by--escaping your treacherous
burning eyes

so I bled down the bank
to where the golden dew shone
like fiery teardrops

What has left will not
return
which is to say
you will remain:

beautifully
devastated.