I look at him.

As the silk ensnares
alabaster skin, captured by
the glacial body of a caterpillars lungs.

A breath lost, frailty.
mortality. leaving the black roots
of broken lids that are cast in turpentine despair.

Frail so fine,
with lithesome arms bent like
the heart mauled from the beauty of a ballerina.

He still lays motionless,
in hopes I will crawl beneath
his skin and make him warm again.

Porcelain are his eyes
grasping between veiling feathers,
crystallized over the begging of a candles wax.

And petals fall
inside the blue-laced chalice
where his pretty lips touched romance.

As crocheted dreams
rupture along the stained
wings of an angels spine.

My tongue can
taste the alpine hills
that nestle across his ivory vessels,

left... I mourn in his honey-dipped pupils.

And I have starved my
finger-tips to the depth of his death,
fasting in the purity of merciless holy water.