She has a way of humming your name that
twists it into a symphony, and clears
all other notes from memory, or
maybe even existence.
Cherry lips curl around the mouth of
steaming crystal goblets the way you wish
they would curl around your own,
skin to skin. She drinks to the moon, all pale
silver and willow limbs. The nectar scalds your tongue
when she lets you try a sip,
dancing fire to match the curve
of her smile. You swear you are forged
from the silk of her teeth.

It is mid-January and pomegranate blood
stains your palms, juice dripping against
the snow. You found her like that, like a pomegranate,
or perhaps more like a beating heart,
bright blooming against barren chest cavities.
Orchids blossom, white on white,
almost lost. You spot them anyway, and
pluck them because in the trembling wind
they sound like her laugh.
Your fingers stain the petals
red.

She reminds you what it means to
be alive. Here is what she sings to you
in the swaying melody of her hips:
sun-set gold, swinging legs, cold counter
tops. Notches on bedposts.
All glory days and heavy words,
dripping off her tongue in streams
you never understand. She drinks
to the moon in steaming crystal goblets,
and you wonder why she doesn't flinch.

It is mid-January and your flesh is
winter white. You worry about getting lost
amongst the falling snow.
She spots you anyway,
and plucks you from the Earth in a single,
heaving breath because you remind her
what it means to be human,
all bruised ribs and sunken
eyes. She pulls the ridges from her
backbone, and sands your own
paper skin, wiping apologies from
the lace of your lungs.
You never meant to clip
her wings.