Bird black eyes follow me dot to dot to dot. Unfurl heaven feathers in a real place, clipped to bodies with quick-paced hearts that live a short but lofty lifetime.
Looking out of the window, Alice saw a knot in the branch become a crow. It moved along like a train under the bark, a train made of molten sap. It broke through and grew black wings which spread and took carefree flight, but only after a long look back from the other side of the window.
As you turn unhanded into something flat, you decrease, and cease to become the influence you once were on my sense of sexuality and expression.
Just a man, inadequate. Just a memory of love unreturned. My body doesn’t flux at your image. My hands are mine again.
I hope to sit with you one day,
in a content sort of way.
Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,
But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,
Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,
And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.
Snow-studded sycamore with a bird in, with a brain in, with a soul in.
How lucky are we with souls in the trees above us and the air around,
with souls in the soil beneath us and the flesh among us.