I want to say this poem with –
dripping harmonicas
and dying birds.
Please. Don’t think me rude.
I’m just the girl
who never felt friction
until your sweaty hand
touched my blue jay skin.

Most marvelous piece of luck,
I died.
We ran through fields of mirrors.
Reflecting
Reflecting.
My feathers burst into flame
and I bloomed.
Beads of light,
fractured dew.
I learned the secret feeling of music
inside your teeth bones:
just bite down.
You said.

All the knobs of
your warbling voice
sparkle and echo,
endlessly.