Triangles

A triangle is always going to have slopes. You're either climbing or falling.
Up.
Down.

Up.

It looks so beautiful from the top and you've never had fuller lungs. Don't hold your breath now, that thing beating in your core doesn't know what it's like to fall

down.

Air everywhere except inside you. Lungs folding into paper planes that had a map of her veins and a picture of a smiling sun. The heat you felt beneath your skin, but it was always Winter that far off the ground.

Some corners are sharper than others so I picked you from that tree and slipped you into the pages of my favourite book of poetry, forgetting your colours like to run

away.

But honey, triangles aren't round and now there's punctures in the leather seating. You could patch them up with nests stolen from bushes on fire and feed the

flames.

With old letters written on puzzle pieces. She was the greatest mystery. Floating in tea pots, making sure to miss your cup. You watched them

drown

their sorrows and you swallowed the pills left in her purse.
One white.
Two blue.
All triangular.

They're dying to be brought up.


Keep them
d
o
w
n


A triangle is always going to have slopes.