In the ribcage of a whale, the flatline of his heart was silenced by
her song, soft like a butterfly’s wings. Delicate. Crisp.
A sound so faint yet so wondrously beautiful
that everything must die for it to be heard.
Her voice flutters to the dead beat of his heart,
pulsing against the stark white medical cage. A
butterfly has no ribs and doesn’t understand; her heart
beats freely, but his is – was – trapped. Trapped by the
encapsulating dew of her melodies.
In tandem, they weep: she for the beauty in pain and
the pain in beauty, he for her. For the pain in
her beauty, the beauty in her pain. A lack of
perfection creating a paradoxical painting of beauty hidden
away somewhere in the sewers, guarded by the waste
of the rest.
A heart beating rapidly against the tainted, toxic, tarnished
ribcage of the Great White Whale. Moby Dick had
never looked quite so soft, so alluring. He croons his song
on the deathbed of the damned, pumping through the
veins of her butterfly song.
His heartbeats’ faint drumming survives, trapped within
the dew of Styx – an unbreakable vow to never
abandon her, never to leave her alone, singing soft the
song of honeyed vinegar, to not force her
to catch all of the flies when he knows
he could do it for her. Even without her
knowing. His own butterfly song, it drifts through
the melifluity of a thought never said. For, his heart
beats on in the ribcage of her butterfly wings.