she stands on the edge of space
holding a tissue full of lies;
time claims its victory, for now
unraveling
beneath the center of blackness,
where nothing begets her
parting ways;
before
delivering gifts of feathers
where we'll soar
over false shadows, but for
today
I'll leave you
like drying paint on native skin
burning in the sun.
until then,
I'll be in the branches,
until you're ready to climb; from
the settling dust.
