Like one hundred per cent candle lit moments
And soft focus lighting
Except, a little bit bluer
Neither golden nor pink
La vie n’est pas rose
It is romantically not.
It is defence mechanism,
Insurance, a cardigan in summer
I spread butter on hot toast
Thinking of that particular sunshine
And not the animal that is dead
I think about soft grains and bread
And it blurs
Seeping through to stain my bare hands.