Note the cold stinging each kiss, emanating forth from the capillaries paying tribute though her fingers.
Crystallizing in her hand, she cries out, pain engraved upon lips and tongue, etched hastily in her wrinkles where the lava has set in the cake pan.
Sometimes she glows, that feathery tone luminescent in dust light that breaches the threshold of rigor mortis, cast in the bluebird. That tore the jellyfish, squelching neath your ungloved hands, spinning narcotic veils, in shades of bluebottles, crashed up on the pebble shore.
Sometimes her skin scares you, its pearly radiance flickering in shades of a bruise healing from yester year.
Sometimes you imagine your wedding, her veil tossed against her wind-washed hair, seeping into the toxic conspiracy that lies between you in bed, upon the sunkissed night. The sleep that steals the sun and hides it to scorch through every shirt in your closet.
How will you tell her that all her ironing was a toss of time into oblivion? Pennies scattered into naked pockets that clutch at wallets on the pavement in ignorance?