dead skin

Its  just dead  skin not fairies

That glisten gold on a drawn sun.

It reflects and refracts the  light

Buoyantly

From pulled in cold  curtains

In soft  bellows that quake  the air

They spiral  

Into  the illusionary shape  of angels  wings

Upon this wooden  wax  floor.

Its  dead  skin not ghosts

That step upon the boards

To  pull  in these  lines of protolight

That cut through  fat flesh  like a hotknife

To the  brain.

Its dead  skin and its  no skin at all

That leaves its mark  upon my aching heart

As I hear  you  get up

And  slowly walk  out of the  door.