dead hummingbird of love

the bird fled through the barred window.  for a month, its song  gradually grew acuter until it became nothing short of unbearable.

now you're a white noise. vague buzz. dim light being ramdomly flashed in my eyes at times.

now you're a droning. that's what you are.  once miss grand fiasco. muted choir of unyielding ghost writers at the back of my mind.

your song is now made of  undecipherable intermitent noises. now a tamed parasite. once a silent symphony fine-tuned by memory's wretched hand to a vaguely theatrical eye-of-the-storm-ear-drum-breaking-point-hold-your-head-in-panic effect.