He thinks I’m beautiful,
like two pennies in a dead man’s pocket
and whispers through cracked
windowpanes.
Perhaps even
like milk white flesh
peeling from milk white bone.
He thinks I’m glistening,
like blood from a broken nose,
and a cup full of tears. They found Romeo
within the sycamore grove; already pale
and quivering, already poisoned skin
and melting memories. They’ll find me
beneath the lavender, breathing in
heady fumes of flowers.
And he’ll think I’m beautiful,
when I’m still and quiet,
and cannot tell him
that I loved the sky
more.
