Forgiveness

One wing for the right eye and two wings for the left. They gather even as the mortar and pestle crush the tissue paper, petal patterns into dust. Their liquids become dew, a polish coating my cheeks and eyelids. Soft dream tingles step into and across my pores; they usually leave me by now. The sound is the air whispering, turning as more gather. I hold up half a wing. “Look? Don’t you see?” Swinging damask golden brown, violent and mandarin, they do not care. I think they are tired, and even pieces are familiar enough. My hair shifts and presses beneath their search for rest. A tickle crosses my upper lip. So I pinch one between my pointer finger and thumb. I move quickly but there was no need since the slow fluttering is not afraid. I am about to do it, I am shaking, I am about to do it, but then it finds the top of my hand and unfolds there, as if suddenly falling asleep. My fingers release the wing, and I look up as they fall upon me. The sky is warm in my eyes.