Can you promise
that if our love were proverbial feathers
weighed on a gently tipping balance
mine would not sink?
You are a bird poised just before flight, claws crooked
sunk skin deep in me but molting, eyes fixed on the brink
I want to swallow the clouds, bittersweet and dusky ashen,
wrench myself skyward (but you won’t catch me),
taste wafting gales stinging between my teeth
as I dive (and fall)
I might be jealous of the wind.
© wordandink 2018