Butterflies' wings,
red, like a dowager's velvet gown,
must be pinned in,
must be greased and primed,
to tick.

You said I was young,
read, like lines from a script.
With your fluttering hand you
murmur me
poetry:
smile at me
cunningly.

You breathe smoke like a purple bruise spreading.

Your lips are wet pebbles;
I can kiss no moss.
The moan at your throat
only tickles the pearls there.
I don't shiver;
I don't care.

I wish we could burn,
but you run in my veins, you cavernous river.
The band on your finger winks bright in the mirror,
so there is no need of me here.

Your dusted wings unfurl.
You pluck the pin from your breast
and float away on the wind.