I felt a rapid presence inside me.
Dire one – winged hummingbirds dreaming of thier nectar. 
They all cry out  “I am what’s lovely about you!”
Indeed, the parts of me still alive with passion. The parts that know not of all my shortcomings. And they flap about on cold tile floors with sturdy dreams and certain prevail in thier bellies. 
With thier eyes focused on the tall blossoms. Nothing is ever so clear.  Nothing glints so blindingly. 
No gold, No silver, No sunbeams bouncing off the sea.
They are parts of me consumed with deep hunger and naivety is the glands watering thier mouths. 
The birds cry out from the cold floor.
But I mustn’t feed them, nor lift them to their nectar for they are what’s lovely about me. They are my passion! Thier hunger is my muse, you see!

But, years go by and thier calls go quiet and they lay still.

How selfish am I to be such a masochist! To suffer my physical body to such proportions merely in order to feel so alive internally. How naive am I! For now I see the two go hand-in-hand and here I sit with neither.

Just dead hummingbirds and dried, crumbled old flowers.