She is a mystery unsolved,
a result of the grave sentiment
carelessly left behind
by the man who tried to
decipher her.

The pads of her fingers
are constructed in symphonies
and silenced accusations –
juries who could not find the
truth under her smile, and
one-too-many detectives
racking their brains for explanations
kicking to surface empty handed.

Her breaths come up short
as she chokes on lullabies
and discarded evidence –
the butterfly on her wrist threatening
to fly away, but orchestrations manufactured
by phantoms mean nothing to
angels.

For a very good friend of mine