her translucent rose cheeks
are like faded newspaper
and (if the light is right) i swear
i can see the tissue paper-tears
tiptoeing underneath them.

her voice is butterfly-thin
and trickles into silence
most of the time it's like
paper cut shocks when she shouts.

i could watch her shaking hands
with their bruised fingertips
tuck crumpled lock of hair after
crumpled lock of hair till ever after
(and then some more).

and fusing through the air
is her cinnamon perfume
as it twists in-between
the vodka she had for breakfast.

some would call her a
girl in decay; but to me
she's my falling fallen angel.

i often find myself
picking up black
and white feathers
just encase
but only in dreams
can i piece her back together
again. (and again).
only in dreams is she

mine.