He brushed the bluebirds
from her hair,
and traced the rivers
of her veins
to find the source–
her beating heart–
and took it for his own.

A breath.
A kiss.
A stilling.
And she but sighed
as he reached
through her
sleeping chest,
and cradling it
moved on.

Dissected now,
he packaged it
and watched
the markets
rising,
falling
in reflection
of her fading
pulse.

And now
he wonders
why
there is a hollow
in her eyes

and why
her slowing rivers
slip to silt

and why the
bluebirds,
watching, wary

won’t return to
her again and
sing.