A scraping of light can be seen from the distance. Everyone else calls it moon’s glow, but she knows better.
“Restless Death Syndrome,” she whispers to her lover who looks quite similar to the others who came before.
“W-what might that be?”
“Cadavers of dreams. You know, like….archaic fiddle tunes.”
She collects ribcage and spine, thighs and distended belly into what could be described as a tightened fist, and rolls over without comment. She removes one part [of body] in order to make room for what was always there.
“Long tailed hopping mouse,” she moans. “Japanese river otter. Elephant bird. Mascarene coot. Sassafras Hesperia.”
Suddenly, she is engulfed in the flames of her tears. Third degree burns singeing her blood.