Its just dead skin not fairies
That glisten gold on a drawn sun.
It reflects and refracts the light
From pulled in cold curtains
In soft bellows that quake the air
Into the illusionary shape of angels wings
Upon this wooden wax floor.
Its dead skin not ghosts
That step upon the boards
To pull in these lines of protolight
That cut through fat flesh like a hotknife
To the brain.
Its dead skin and its no skin at all
That leaves its mark upon my aching heart
As I hear you get up
And slowly walk out of the door.