I wish maroon was not
rotting — it was never given a chance at love.
And jangling keys, like hallowed windchimes,
ricochet through open, stifling
space. I didn’t take the film
to the dark labs, I let
the plastic mold, I’ll admit. But
bitter was the man who loved not
for loving, only for the limes growing
in the backyard, all maroon-like.
Full, this air is full; this man is sweet.
About the Poet
Miya Segal is a part-time poet and full-time daydreamer. Currently on gap-year, Miya hopes to pursue a degree in literature and philosophy at university in the future. This is her first publication.