pin through wings.
a shadow casted on a thin wall.
the electric lid of space sent spiraling
with silhouette bodies, tangled into one
core. their words never buoyant to be heard-ingested into
the safe of promiscuity.
released like balloons into a misted sky.
they are gone.
the lingering of inadvertence stings in your rose coloured glasses-but all to be left scarred is the notches etched into your post.
and the one you want carved into your palms
is the butterfly against a desert of grains.