of the sun

it is 6.30pm, the edge of the sun glimmers beyond the boundary, taking its last breath before it is returned to its rightful lover. and the bystander waits, listens to the cry of the sunbirds, knowing yet their time has been lost, past, it is time to forget. they remember naught, the outline of your skin, the glistening voice, an airy shadow left in the wake of mere fate's hands nestled upon circumstance; a certain glory to the act of erasing resides in the dying glow of the auburn sky. and it is a new dawn, they say, rid of all sentimentality. the air quivers.

i lift the lighter to the painting you left. the bystander looks towards the night.