Paper Butterflies

Beneath the veins you have claimed, without my mark as to why you chose to learn the art of loneliness, is a choice I cannot conceive without a tear to shed. Far from the bed we once called our sanctuary is left with a dampened sheet, a dented pillow, a scent that is not new or exuberant. I miss it already. I leave it to you, now. Hopefully the coils will sooth the emptiness the life-size pillow cannot give. They are bronze, metal, rusty, no support to your back after a sleepless night-a night of disaster for which I bear no sorrow unto you my dearest beloved. You used me, cut open my skin and buried your twisted filth into my subdividing region that I can no longer feel the pain that leaks out over and over the cold pavement where you left me lusting after death. I made love with the eternal watchman who patiently waited for my arrival to the bed he made-a bed where I shall bleed out your stench. There are no words. The watchman was ever so gentle, like a dove's caressing wing, a paper butterfly. There are no words. No love, no secrets. No words, no you. No me.