she's ivory in bone and butterfly in skin,
moths fluttering up his veins where her hands touch, staying only a heartbeat, but the feeling lingers on.
she's got daylight for eyes and midnight for hair,
and if he inhales her he thinks he might find the sickle moon that won't sparkle like the stars should
in her
e yes.
-
sleep finally claimed her while daybreak reared its ugly head.
(they at least shared the equalization of slumberance.)
she looked like an angel tainted by the slithering disease of rats.
if the mud was wiped away from her face,
and the guck scraped from the contours of her rise and falls, she'd be pretty.
(her splinters are draped in blue hair and white feathers and forced kisses and a betrayal from more than just that boy.)
but that's neither here nor there. or this and that. yet one thought remained.
if she was an angel then she had lost her
wings to fly.
©
(doesn't really make sense, but that's poetry)
