It’s the sun crashing down on the blade edge of the horizon. It’s the resolute ray, unbending and unstopping, that springs forth from the ruby’s blood. It’s the lover’s fever dreams, incarnate in moist petals that hide beneath a bulb of inescapable intoxication. It’s the fluid wish to live that runs away from a fresh corpse. It’s the heat you feel when you see your first crush once again. It’s the ink, equal parts greed and deliberation, that crosses your name out. It’s the dancer that dances over Chicago and under Centralia. It’s the moment of escape the earth feels before it must imprison itself. It’s the skin of a year’s labor, sweet justification. It’s the twilight dress of mountains, only worn before winter rips them naked. It’s the iron wrinkling with age, the remains of a strong bone that had burnt away coldly and invisibly. It’s the gentle glow you see before you are born. It’s the first color you recognize. It’s the sun breaking through the blade edge of the horizon.

It’s life killing death.