your silence has opened a wound in my oxygen,
and when I inhale, my lungs fill with butterflies.
tick, the bomb in my chest, nothing sporadic,
so I move slowly to prolong the explosion
that will push them out in a stream of crimson.
suspense lives in my blood like roots in the soil
where a crow now sits, hungry, looking at me,
snapping at the patterns, only it knows the weather be.