Scaly ******* shudder with a gutter-gray cleaving.

She misses the calming touch of her breezy paramour,
and their nostalgic days vent in pitched-white whispers.

If I could breathe back those mists, I might lessen her sorrow ...

Too-rigid muscles slide into aqua spasms.

She fidgets at the lack of fuss her fragments show,
and the brittle hours snap at the metallic-blue cracks.

If I could massage those bursts, I might slacken her worry ...

A caustic blood simmers up vermilion bubbles.

She whiles ways for the weakly spotted to crumble,
and languishing minutes dissolve with yolk-yellow pops.

If I could stomach those boils, I might keep her from breaking.