she has made monsters and villains
where there are none, where it should only
be a boy and a girl.
she is sitting in a shrinking
place, watching the house lights dim
and his shoulders fold
like glass, crushing and crashing
into all the Damning,
as he leans into the nightscape window
and counts the stars.
with this sort of genre, you can
almost see his breath fogging up
the black neon, the rot
in her mouth.
they keep shortening Possibility,
they are Possibility.
they are constellated into different
mad-houses, glowing and dying
and waiting: for the other
to wake up and save
them both, for the other
to play god
and rewrite hell.
the last pavilion 