Sunday 6/25/2006 11:30:00 PM

The butterfly whispered and the archer froze. While a copious tension flooded from lips to lungs. With paper wings the wind would draw upon it. In soft inks like the sting of rubbing alcohol.

On wounds infected.

With a glorious point it pierced the moment. As still and agile as a deceptive smile. His empty embrace only reminding me of all the things I had to write before I could actually leave him.

There's a blister on my back and a needle between my fingers. I'm asking the blood to listen. To let me know it's there. What it sees.

No gravity. No exits. Just a merry-go-round of red. Miles of tiny highways. All dead ends. Hundreds of rivers running to and away from that devilish waterfall in my chest.

There are no bullets for the gun. Just fingers everywhere. I tape its wings to my fingers, but it's not the same.

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