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she is not that same little bird
whose wings only fluttered to rest
whirring up a little sandstorm of her own
until she would blink round tears that
fell oblong unto the pebble laden  ground
pulling within itself a niche of dust that had blown
a dull drop of mud holding together so much

her blueberry eyes have grown
to let your feathers fall into a mess
that she would weave into one
conglomeration of sweet blues
that erects a series of tombstones
on your starry skin , goosebumps
armed with rifle of hairs
ready to ink  into your spine
a shock of tingling pleasure

the thread has finally cut itself
off the reel of the yarn that you had
in your nocturnal sojourns sewn
sparkling a twinkle of silent serenade
she this  kite of myriad colours
sets off on the unknown winds 
leaving you no letter to explain .

A big round of appreciation for that little woman :

Denaeris

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