Before Flight

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 and I— I want to swallow the clouds, bittersweet and dusky ashen, wrench…

The Bird that Flies Freely

I decided to venture out of my hiding place tonight. I think I just ran out of air to breathe. Or maybe my mind is trying to save me: one last nudge out of its suffocating cage before it completely decides to give up on me. But I know my brain won’t quit. The human…