she says "I'm worried if I breathe
too loud the silence will
I watch her hands press butterfly
wings between the pages.
does she know that
I'm the queen of silence?
my corpse lungs and
graveyard lips; a decomposing
tongue lurking behind white-washed
tombstones. paint me with sunbeams,
I'm still the same.
[death warmed over]
her tropic gaze rakes over
the bone-white snow. "I keep
swallowing the snow-flakes. they
remind me of frozen flowers.
their dead sweetness is
I close my eyes. 'yeah,' I would
whisper silently. 'I seem to be that
kind of obliterating drug.'
she turns back to the pages,
her hands stained with
shimmering wing-scales. "butterflies
don't belong in jars," she breathes.
her fingers pluck their wings, one
by one, like petals. "they have wings
for a reason."
and I've become jealous of a
dead insect that knew the dance
of flight: an intimate lover.
[but I can't learn the steps]
"how do they survive the winter?"
just like you, my darling. they
curl up and go to sleep.
"the snow looks peaceful." her eyes
wander to mine: "heavenly."
her mind gropes on ice; "like you
could just lay down and die."
"but I don't think I'm afraid
of the mouth of silence; just
her throat. it's an excruciating
beauty." she pauses before
unleashing her private storm.
"I always wanted to tangle tounges
I tread on moody toes through
the silent snow. in every
breath I capture a piece of the snowstorm.