Smitten


Listen to my tumbling stories of being swept off my feet,
I offered him the air I breathe.
He turned his cheek and left me to live,
for Death is not a prince charming.
"My dear, you don't want to be with me,"
he sang into the folds of my skin,
Death snapped me in two like a glass stemmed rose,
he broke my heart gently and placed the halves into the hands of whispers.
I followed his wishes and tried to fall in love with letters,
every day I used the to describe his serenity.
His clear blue eyes and moon lit nights
hollowed my chest like old empty logs.
I recreated memories of us gazing into
each other as if we were starlight.
Eventually I became smitten with the way
in which I can make a hundred paintings at once without ever picking up a brush.
Death made me feel as if my blood was a love offering but
My arteries are an orchestra and my voice pastels,
my hands are murals of paint I regurgitate.
My blood is the label in museums, "Do Not Touch."
I began to fall out of love with him and started to adore with what he gave me.
I try to remember how badly I wanted to hold his hand,
or how I yearned to be his corpse bride;
committed to demise until the end of time,
but now I can only think about the symphonies of my words and how some people learn to play piano but my computer keyboard oozes music.
Nobody understands these long dramatic sentences but sometimes I say them to myself as if I were singing a lullaby because vocabulary words are my melodies.
I still wish he wanted to hear me sing.

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