birdblade

he had the poisonality of a larkspur.

it was a do-or-die type of story

with very little elbow room.



she was this sort of

debonair diva darling,

of the variety that looks best in black hat and gloves.



they were a mismatched rehashed

bundle of impossibilities

lounging away life on

tropical islands whenever possible

(which was not often).



he had a green fedora of which he was excessively proud.

she was always changing into something more comfortable,

which caused him to wonder about her (but not too 

deeply).



they ballroom danced and she wore pointy shoes that made her 5’11’’ 

with an extra-straight back.

she later complained about the blisters, and he said 

he would hear none of it, as 

he had warned her against them in the first 

place.



he liked dry martinis because they were in vogue.  

she ate his twists of lime for vitamin c.

they could have made a great pair 

in a 40’s tearjerker movie way but



she lost one too many of his argyle socks in the laundry.

this was intentional on her part because 

he had the poisonality of a larkspur

and eventually all she could see

was the blade in the bird.