abecedarian of squirrel-spirited swan songs sung to the sorrows of a heartbeat

apprehensive atmosphere, angels and their holly bells

blood-borne, bathed in Christmas’ sweet ruby red

cranberry-cheeked, crooked and all, mournful little nymphs

dancing and prancing like little reindeers, boxy and strange

eve of tomorrow, might I grow the same antlers and wings, with your

fingers pressed to my wrist where the pulse flutters like

gold-leaf wings; let divinity return to its

home, the hazy yellow lights are always 

indulging in this room, warm tumbling and butter nice, 

justified silence of a 2-person audience in the concert of a heartbeat

kingdom-bound sanctuary, something so intimate about a macabre smile

liturgical almost, the way you whisper the same words like prayer

mary and her sorrow, that blue grief painted on cathedral walls, hissing

nothing holy ever stays, does it? the room turns stumbling into snowfall 

ornery shuffling of the swans sewn uncomfortably onto the quilts you stitched

pale and ragged like your fingertips worn from sharper needles, no thimbles

quiet in the absence of mechanical birdsong we both know all too well. 

remember me as

squirrel-spirited smoke curling beneath angels’ feet, 

temple bells, animal noises or heartbeats, 

unicorn purity whose blood swims in the morning dew of 

virgin snow that melts on your tongue and holds my shape a moment longer; let 

winter holds its breath and wait for spring that never comes

‘xactly like how you stay knowing I’ll disappear, knowing I’ll slowly stop 

yearning to be something other than salt within blood within flesh within forever slumber

Zzzzzz