He broke me like a little porcelain vase

where he used to keep fresh lilies and carnations.

I remained there, broken into a hundred pieces;

no one bothered to pick me up—

for they were afraid they would cut their fingers

and bleed red like me, smeared with warm blood.

Stormy blue deliria in my thighs;

I devoured the falling moon.

Swollen eyes stained in ruby red;

A hazy whisper like a goodnight came by

You've been abandoned; you were left.

But I don't want to crumple like leaves.

My lungs are blue in smoke—a thin smoke

from his cigarette; I don't hate it today.

It smells like me, the auric red—

my hands are stained with; death.

He's made of cerulean poetry, fading in the pale winter snow.

I'm his little preface before he was written;

I draw parallel echoes on his bare shoulder—

fevered with psalms of forgiving and gentle love.