In Tandem

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.

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