Just the other day celebrated,
almost walked over you this morning.
Rebuilding not an option,
the furry meat of your motor destroyed,
and in a place warmer than it should be,
inside another .
But you left these;
lightest of things,
of no use to anyone or anything,
organized and elaborate, crystaline dust
made only for a final flight into my eyes…
Were you any different,
my poisenous, little black butterfly
with the crystal kiss…?
Rebuilding is not an option,
the machine has been consumed,
only the desire for flight remains.