Amber eyes in the dying light
of this sunset confession
pools of poisoned honey,
your words are trickster’s pleas –
Loki’s own creed. A vigil to the lies
we told ourselves while we danced
around the truth we so violently –
so valiantly –
fought against. A spectre of ribbons
tying us together at the seams,
misshapen and mottled –
moths have eaten away our structure,
revealing the threadbare connections
we sought to maintain.