You entered my silence like a violin bow dragged with blood

You entered my silence like a violin bow dragged with blood through shattered stained glass I sewed your laughter under my eyelids and lungs, and the light transformed into myriads of fragrant wounds I coughed wild moon petals for weeks, my mouth full of the echo of your ever-burning footsteps There is no cure for you, you are the high fever that shapes bones into transparent crystal bells You are the imperial chandelier fallen right in the middle of the sonata, when the air still trembles with flame and glass And I lean daily among the shards, gathering your syllables like phosphorescent fish above my heart I taste them with fear, checking if they still smell of sound, if they still shake the rooftops of my orbit Every morning I bandage my lungs with sheet music, hoping that silence will flow from me But the silence breaks anew and your echo returns like a kite torn by a storm So I clutch your broken glass in my fists, to make it sound like the violin again