“Peter pan, little boy corpse” she sighs and hands him her fingers one by one, no jar, no formaldehyde, holding hands like they are wounds, wrapping digits tight around each other.
“Birdy, little woman,” he teases, nudging softer. His hands are cold and she muses, knowing if she sawed them open, edges of little teeth, she would find only sawdust and spidery, rusty nails for his joints.
They are old in the eyes, skin is smoothed and fine. Their eyes are wrinkled in the well of their pupils, are shattered in the iris color, they feel it in their head and soon begin to tire and wilt into chairs and each other and the floor until they are rumpled heaps of leaning lines.
“tell me if you see the stars.” He will go, all white wash and pure in her head. She will wait around for little boys with shells and sun for eyes, she will sit like this, she will smell his smoke and the way he hesitates in the middle of a speech and sigh.
“they should put my name in it, just to taste bitter.” He murmurs, against her hair. And they will sit until their cigarettes are ash, cylinders are full of ash. Their heads are clear, but now they are so numb.
“jars of keys, just for me.” She hisses, islands are full of sand and dirt between her toes, that hurting spot between her eyes she loathes. This is no better and she falls so often because he pulls her arms so close. Nothing will make her run anymore, nothing will make her jump. She wants oceanic, sharp waves of hair and a smile that makes her feel like she was reborn without any flames.
“I always liked bleached bones best,” he tearfully intones and has her little wrists so tight in his palm, she hopes to have her bones break open, because no one ever knew what was inside. She’s not naïve enough to expect piñatas but in the right state of mind to tolerate squelchy black and lung bits that circulate in her veins.
“I was the rabbit, where was the hat.” She hushes. Teeth all set, eyes all damp because her thoughts filter into the back of her sockets and riot for want of escape. He scrapes her cheekbone, little jutting thing with his edgy, rag man nails.
“Poor child, where will you hide when hero dear burns?” and his eyes are wet on her neck, she want to think its his mouth but she knows he is the shell, and where was the man?