a bowl of tea, a rustle of paper.
the insect’s wings sing
and flutter; a spring uncoiled
buzzing through white heat,
a swipe of candleblack, stroked
across the white silence,
like snowflakes on jet black.
obscured by clouds of ink
in clear cold water, the bottom
dropping out of dreams,
her mirror sees only his reflection,
mocking at midnight.
moonlight reaches her face,
pale as silver tears.
fear, seduction, grief,
a spiral drawn in the sand
turning inward.
silent cries of ending
call in the time under black
silk, clouding her sleep.
no joy or pain now,
only resting in softer arms.