1 am some October night

Running through a field of flowers

during a lightning storm; not giving a fuck

if I get electrocuted—maybe I'll electrocute back.

October—a birth and a death; nostalgia has

her fingers creeping along my throat, 

a brush with a tiny bit of death.

And I want to self-destruct—at night, I can't

see his face, and the memories shuffle—chaotic.

I cannot recall; I cannot touch them with my brain.