Birds of a feather blend together.

bend together.

blur together:

nothing is defined that clearly.

the liquor off the top shelf,

the glasses from the bottom,

your emerald sweater too hot, ditched

on my sticky hardwood.

at the sandwich shop earlier, in fitzroy,

the chef asked if we were involved.

both of us were silent. 

the only answer scarier than ‘yes’. 

Lucy, sometimes I worry my sadness is too big

and one day

you’ll have to help me carry it.

you’re crying now, draining out, like a flower.

there is nothing I can do.

you know this. 

I do not.

I tell you something I once read —

your direction matters more than speed.

but you cannot move

and I feel like a liar.

I hold you like a breath,

as long as I can hold it.

you dance like a puppet in the soft glow of mourning,

Birds chirping, painting the sunrise with stories of stars.

there’s color in the wind.

I read that somewhere too.

maybe it’s fake. maybe it’s pollution. 

maybe you are the Bird, spent, empty, 

resting, on something that could snap at any moment. 

yet you stay exactly where you are. 

still. calm. breathing. 

freedom is a state of mind.

you will remember how to fly.