blujay

Her spine is crumpling into origami cranes, left in jars beside a dreamer’s dresser (I childishly hope they stretch bone-wings to heights, little Icaruses, as they tempt the gods in flight).

I don’t wish to be nomads, wandering through the birdhouses of “if”s and “when she dies…” for I’ve been a gypsy of apology, ghosting through sterilized rooms and bed-feet, as much an apparition as Reapers; and because I could not see Them, I learned to say “goodbye.”

I do not wish to make my nests of broken bottles and her flattened dreams.