You took me to the meadow—
where we stole
perfect rays of sunshine and
half-whispered secrets. You were
a chrysalis of time, hanging
in a balance of past and future—
my fingers itched, but
my touch was pollution
to the moment
to you
and where they would grow.
The stillness was so quiet.
Sunset drew its cool,
black shade, and you
shed the silkiness of
your innocence. When you
turned toward your car,
I watched you walk away.

Last year, you told me
you took up smoking—
I watched you, your wings
beating against the wall in a
delicate frenzy, a flurry of
soundless activity stealing
the iridescent powder of
your edges. My hands reached
up to cover that bright,
shining light, but
your voice—throbbing tragically
against your throat—bore me away.
You, you ashy shadow
of yourself—you keep looking
for the window, though the
petal folds of my hands
are waiting to carry you
to your escape.