They are the sparrows of silence,
they are the singers of the night,
they are the ones who fold, perfectly, before melting

They always see
the tiny sounds within the quiet.
They always hear
the sudden bursts of light that come with closing eyes.
They always feel
the hearts of glass, pitiful shards under the skin.

They are those who can
see the evil,
speak the evil and hear the evil

They are those
with open arms and
hearts of snares

They are those
sighing in the darkness,
the smell of rose petals dripping from their lips

They turn vinegar into honey,
they send your heart into your stomach,
they are like snow when you’re running late.
They change with the cycles of the moon
stretching away then grabbing you tight.
An arm of never letting go.