A pomegranate on the tree has split open, and its tart vermilion syrup drips slowly onto the lawn, as if crying tears of blood to the ancient, cruel gods of old, those with blood of ichor, who lived off nectar and ambrosia. The adolescent moon looks on, pearly and aloof as she guides the heaving tides, and the garden is drenched with dew, the tears of the night. The sun is only a sliver, yet the air is already viscous as wild honey, and just as sweet. Rain drops as warm as blood begin to fall in what becomes a shower, and I feel agonizingly alone.

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