Dacota Pratt-Pariseau

Love me one more time.
Our wind is changing.
This egg moon isn’t believable
and your hair was never as dark
as blue lakes against the night.
Never lips of cerise and wine.

Time isn’t blessing us
or maybe I lost the key
to the door where confetti pours out.
This tower isn’t built from stones,
but nettles. The truth is:
our book always ends the same way.

I don’t want you to be blinded,
but this is your stop.
I’m about to push you out.
Are you able to fly?
Stop looking for the front door.
I told you about the window out back.