colorful caress

I drowned in essential oils one day, alone, enveloped in the scent of damp towels. Open the window. Don't torment me any longer with the pungent smell of our shared life beyond the edge of the bathroom. I cross the threshold and wipe my knees in the room where feathers dipped in balm await me. A fly flies into my open mouth, which I swallow obediently, then step outside into the cold air, lashing my skin with pain like ice cubes pressed to my chest. I thought it would fly out of my throat when it felt the chill, but between my teeth I feel plump, swollen wings crushed by my entire being, focused on sensitive enamel. I return to the room, and we kiss. You and I. After a moment, I can't take it anymore, I can't close my eyes. Enough. I breathe quickly, still feeling the fly fluttering between our tongues as we tease each other's senses. Will you follow me with your eyes, observing my scent as it gently steps beside me? Now you even look at me longingly, knowing I won't be back tonight. Perhaps I'll never return to the bathroom smelling of damp towels, to the carpet soaked in incense smoke that gives you a headache. You open the window with hope, but you're wrong. I climb out, placing my frozen feet on the windowsill. I step out into space. I hang there for a moment, like in a cartoon over a precipice. If I could, I'd move my legs a little more, pretending I wanted to run further. There's a moment of dilated pupils, a frenzy of eyelids, a dreamlike breath. The wind hurts us.

Smashed on the sidewalk, I smile delicately with the tip of my tongue, still searching for my fly—the black axis of symmetry for two cracked glass pieces cut into wings swollen between my teeth. Tears well up in my eyes as I feel the tickle of tiny legs at the corner of my mouth. A brief flash of memory of feathers dipped in balm in my aching head. A butterfly flew from my parted lips. I prefer the colorful caress of wings when I close my eyes.