She is silent in his arms as he tells her
His day, his troubles, his triumphs.
The heart of him drums under her ear,
And her pulses latches on, little mimicker.
His words crawl inside her skin like maggots
And feast on the emptiness they find:
Where are her stories? Why is her blood
Cold, and flush with carbon? Like rivers
The blue slices down her bones, and she
Tucked up underneath him like a pet,
Traces the bits she can see: her wrist,
The crook of her arm. But when she looks
To him, no rivers at all can be found; he
Is a mountain, a monolith, bloodless, stone.