Bloomfield

Onwards we go. All 

that we know is

this is the last time we'll be

under the skies of Bloomfield.

We've given birth

to many a song

in the heat of LA.

We've welcomed gray doves in the spring

and fell in love with ourselves,

our own kin.

Moments once lived

remain closed within

frames of

deep indigo, deep,

of edges

sharp and slick.

It's hard to say

if we'll ever meet again.

But know that

I'll be

thinking of you when I dance,

shun by the golden hour,

in the comfort of my skin.

I suck on a few lemons.

I try to wash away

this deep blue indigo

that once left scars on my fiddle.

The tint bleeds my elbows,

knees and bones.

My knuckles and spleen

lean to a heavy color it seems.

Look how far away we've come

from the warm embrace of nights where

we steeped

in the entrails

of a lovely house

in Bloomfield.