I want our words to have friction
so they mean a little more
than licking our lips
and hoping it sounds better
with pretty metaphors.
You still said the same thing,
and like clocks we watched
from the walls, our moth eyes
sinking into the sun, hoping
to burn our pupils in a way
that even god could feel,
as he shrunk with the black.
We clung to the curtains of
window ceils, our wings tangled
in dust, fluttering, and craving
that final twitch of release.
I watched you change,
and you were the metamorphosis
that I felt beneath my finger tips.
I would try to stop you,
but in the end, you fell
into a cup of water.
What an anti-climactic
waste.