Neon Pierrot Eau de Parfum

Peach juice drips off his white-painted chin onto his papery cotton ruff, staining it under the wide, milky moon. A fool no more, now that he's known love, he's been reduced to this: a slip of a man, more like an overgrown child in too-fancy pajamas. The trees seem to bend backward into the night—even they don't want to bear witness to this tragicomic travesty. In his pocket, a letter with words too faded to read anymore but still scented with the cold headiness of violets. He reaches to make sure it's still there as he glows, electric in the dark of spring.