gunshot screams

she is the dresden rose of delicate porcelain

blooming from the banisters in the staircase

of your ribcage, the ivy vines sprouting in

the pages of your spiral-bound journal

whose writings are tattooed across your spine.

she's the music you hear lulling you to sleep

in the middle of the afternoon where

the silhouette of the croissant moon

crawls just above the powder blue horizon.

you kept a photocopy of her candi(e)d smile

inside the back pocket of your ripped jeans,

hoping to catalogue her memory in

the reflection of a a new dawn.

she's the ghost of rain crashing on

rooftops and windowpanes and

even the storm couldn't drown out

her gunshot screams.