Lolita and the Humbert Bird...

I didn't want them to, but they did.
My tectonic plates got excited, too excited, hit yours and now I'm not sure whose fault my epicentre is.
I should have forced them to remain placid, but now the crust's broken, the earth's dancing and I'm uprooting the homes of the ruby throated hummingbirds.
The branches entangle around my ruby throat in self-defence, and the rise and fall of the earthy waves show no mercy.
The birds are a beautiful illustration to this catasrophe; their mellifluous, lyrical songs providing the perfect soundtrack to disaster.
My ruby red throat plumes feathers, soft and weightless. My arms, by the multitudinous hands of the trees, bend to look like wings.
I might look like you now, but I'll never be able to sing like you.

Look out for me.
The silent ruby-throated hummingbird, flying solitary, gazing at the wreckage of her epicentre.
A red feather of blood dives into the debris.

I don't think I'll write anymore, because words don't mean anything now.

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