tallydragon

She listens to the corpse of a wingbeat. The stories of faraway people etched on sea glass and flower petals, like legends told for lullabies printed with rose thorns in the absence of paper. Do the fingers of clock hands hold the questions of children, the way wine kisses guilt and disposable wedding rings? Handmade letters and gift-wrapped packages resemble the music of a laughter that isn't really there. How many faces are the reflections of a moment dying in the second of a memory- or the dances in the i love you's that you never told me.