When Silver Men Die

The sun is shining and warming the world around you but it is cold. It is the kind of cold that is breathtaking and chilling to your lungs. It's not your fault it is cold. It is his. You hold the silvery boy in your arms. His skin is the color of steel and his eyes are the very hue of a dying stars as it crashes over the sky and casts night unto the world. His eyelashes are fringed in white and his skin feels like what you assume stars would feel like against your skin, but it is a cold touch.

You clutch his nude form as he lay dying and you cradle his head. You run your fingers through locks of silvered hair and beg him with your eyes to keep breathing. But he can't. His skin is crumbling on you, bits of silvery dust takes to the air. From where these particles once had lain, his skin begins moving -no, fluttering - as his lifeless skin becomes earthly butterflies that are caressed in the sweet color of moonlight and they take wing.

They take wing and you stay. No reminder of what had been there a moment before or of the man you loved, and just as he'd predicted many moons before; when he died, his essence would be eternally gone, erased from the universe.

You've forgotten him almost instantly.