I must have breathed in at the wrong moment.
I some how seemed to have inhaled at the most inopportune time.
When ever the moment was,
you got inside.

You buried yourself deep into my tissue,
moved along ever so skillfully as not to nick a vein or
disrupt one of those capillaries you were so jealious of.
Jealous, because the heart that beat the blood through them,
didn't beat for you.

You found your spot and you waited.
For months you fed off of me and I didn't even notice you there.
You followed me to the bar to have a few drinks.
You went on a drive with me to go see my friends.

One morning I woke up and noticed you.

You were laying on the other side of the bed,
my blankets wrapped tight between your legs and through your arms,
like some blue snake fallen victim to strangulation.

You were seeing yourself as the butterfly that had emerged from this drunken cocoon that still smelled of cigarettes and years of regret.
I myself was suprised I was even seeing you.

You burned the eggs in an attempt to prove your possibilities.
Your make up had toned down and I could see that you were nervous to be revealing the girl only you knew.
You were like an EMT pumping and pushing and breathing,
trying to give life back to the dead.
I didn't have the heart to tell you that the lungs had long since been removed,
and the heart never felt your push.

The day I open our urn and scattered our ashes into the air,
you choked trying to catch each bit.
You looked like a child during a first snow fall,
and all I could do was walk away and make snow angels