Serafin

I can see the way you move on her
The way you put your large identical hands on her sides
and your thumbs tapping like a drum on the bones that stick out
I can feel the sweat that you drown in as you work,
as you glide over her, through her
She's looking at you, you're not looking at her with those eyes that pierce,
with those eyes that tell stories
Those grey sheets don't know any better, but you do
She grabs your neck but her hands don't fit like mine do
Her hands don't fit at all but she thinks she knows you
I know she doesn't know how to make you shiver,
how to make your hands laugh, how to make you collapse
with one touch and a stroke
You can't say her name because our syllables match
and mine are screaming
She doesn't taste the residue of peanut butter that's always there
as she kisses you, but she tastes my name
She only knows one thing that I do not;
If you broke into that thin smile that melts me down,
as you finish what you never really started

Good night, sweet girl

A bird sat in her hand, fidgety like herself. She stroked the little lively thing from the top of its head to its tail feathers. Sitting atop a tree branch in the moonlight, she could see it had maroon feathers- like her marooned heart.  The type of bird was unclear to her, it was too dark to be a cardinal and too light to be a finch, maybe it was an oriole. She suspected it was a male bird because of its eyes, they were far more round than a female's. He cocked his head at her, slightly to the left as she ran her fingers down his sides. It was almost a puzzled look, as if it did not know her intentions for fear that she might just pluck his feathers off in one swift motion- like picking the wings off flies. The bird started to walk up her forearm and as he did so, she noticed a limp in its walk. The girl with wispy brown hair was so curious as to what caused the limp, but knew that it was one of those things that had to be left unsaid. Perhaps it was because of another bird, she would not know. The bird made it way up to her left shoulder with his little limp, passing to look at the place her heart would be. He looked up to her face, and she listened to the bird's eyes. They were bold and large, shifting left and right slowly, a dance she had seen in other's eyes before- a dance she had done herself. She thought about picking the bird up off of her shoulder and forcing it back to her hand, back to safety- but she was too late. The feathered thing spread its wings and she could see all the different shades of grey and red she had not seen before, the way the value of the hues bled together to become one. So it leapt, and then it flew, without any provocation and onto its next shoulder. It was there she learned that there was no way, no thing she could do to hang on to something that wanted to leave.