Birds Were Meant to Fly

I don’t want to write, I don’t want the stage, The softest of scarves Or applause on a page.

I don’t want sweet words That are played on repeat, Or that cold little phrase: “Just be patient, my sweet.”

No meaningless chatter, No “go if you must.” I already have you— My longing, my trust.

I want you to miss me Though we kissed hours ago, To ache for my presence More than you let show.

I want you to love me Till it shivers your skin, To count down the moments Till I’m with you again.

And right in the middle Of meetings and noise, I want my phone lighting Up with your voice:

“Come out for a minute, Let’s slip away soon. I’m hungry, my darling— Come meet me at noon.”

Not hungry for lunch, Not coffee or tea— Just hungry to see you, To steal back what’s mine.

Like I’m just a small child running in from the street.

Grass stains on my Levi’s paired with crooked little teeth

The open arms of a mother always waiting there for me.

You’d have picked out the leaves threatening to nest in my hair

Reminded me of simple things, like stop and breathe the air.

You would have taught me ethics and love, and all the above, but I met you late in life.

You raised the man that would take my hand, as his lawfully wedded wife.

You still teach me now, someway, somehow, about this tragedy we call life.

At twenty-eight, it was worth the wait to have you by my side.

I missed out on years, cried oceans of tears, adrift with no end in sight.

A lifeboat showed up, attached was your love, keeping me warm through the night.

A selfless grace, a tender face, portraits fail to capture your light.

The black and blue, just bleeds right through, such a beautiful, intricate design.

Trace the past, we each wear a mask, but yours never makes you blind.

Up the stakes, we make our own fate, leaving the past behind.

The last one to leave, a white flag in a tree, such dedication is rare to find.

As I write a few words, with my books and my birds, I contemplate your role in my life.