607 - heartbreak Flames now shape a dulled european growth. The sky outlines the faintest struggle. Part of it is smoke. Part of it is memory. My mother conjures up a sigh for her fifty-seventh summer. She wishes for us to be children again, and she regrets having demanded so much of us. A road narrows along our irises; the limit of our youth is a dark echo. We bloomed without a bud. We went missing. We will never be absolved of the space we occupied of the space we left empty of the space we consumed oh, how dinky flattened dandelions were we. Blank storms in a night stalling dreamlessly.