Let me take that order. Allow me to ask you for more. It's not the last word I am seeking, but a lured-out exhibit of hope.

I should not ask you for the terms; you might suggest something 'well-done'. When really, this piece of mince I call 'heart' can only be served raw.

No clear cuts in sight, just a sack of close shavings.

There's the one from 2005, when I was but a schoolgirl pining in angst; it was worth ten skipped heartbeats when you decidedly kissed me on that young, lip-sealed corner, with a well worn knowing look.

There's a pound of many nights with their late collect calls from faraway lands, where I dived into the depths of my bedding and floated, as if suspended solely on the thread of your voice.

The letters from the far east, where you describe the wedding you had envisioned for us amidst mountaintops, coat the bloody mess of pulp that was left once, twice, and many more by the thuds of resounding NO's.

The spill trickled down my arms, back, belly, thighs and you drowned in it with me. Wisps of love escaping your short-stopped breath mixed with the bright, rooftop city lights above my heaving chest - fairies dancing in my barely open eyes-

-The Grass Parakeet