snow white, petals of death

tiny yet simple

they call to her

a whisper of sleep

something to ease the tension

her eyes flutter shut

the bottle tips

a milky orange caught in the faint light

like the glow of a harvest moon.

they flutter one by one into her palms

soft on her skin like butterfly wings,

her heart fluttering too

a pause

and the wings return to the nest

the harvest moon recedes into the night

 

a look at the scythes of cold metal

the taste is bitter on her tongue

heavy and metallic

laden with regret and sorrow

they sit, untouched.

Death has not summoned them yet today

his steps are quiet in the house

his whisper brushes the backs of her legs

as soft as a cat's tail

he waits for her answer

 

the dark liquids call to her

the bitter scent of absinthe

echoes of a rich life once lived

and the ease from which they flowed abundantly

from the glass to the mouth

 

it is not yet her time

perhaps the next night

maybe a year later

but now is not the time to die

not yet, anyway