I heard the dead bird not singing. . .

I watched her smile
trace tiny fractures beneath
her eyes, little slivers of
consternation the sea wrapped
itself in.

I wanted her to kiss
beneath my chin
smile up at me
say something
about how wonderful
life is when lived. . .

Later I came outside
to smoke and remember,
reflect a little bit on how her
fingertips left my leg trembling -
and saw a bird with
its neck broken,
fractured against
a glass building
nestled like sleep, a rock bed beneath.

Her lips moved without her voice.
"I dance between the rain."

But I did not hear her.
Instead, I heard the dead bird not singing.