He used to say,
little flower.
Like the feet of a butterfly tickling a rose.
Woodlice gently ingesting mahogany.
And she would float.
Now days of flowers, butterflies, woodlice
are forgotten. No longer
cadenced stacatto. She tries to float.
But somehow, when that
whiteyellow cloud seems eternally palpable
She falls back down
and everything
becomes monochrome.
Vanessa Lim 3:56 p. m.