Iβd like to describe grief, but itβs too hard. What do you say when there arenβt any poems to write. Itβs not pretty. We didnβt know each other long, but the little time we had together was so intimate. Harper was a late bloomer. She was just starting to figure life out. She was on the waiting list for hormones at the local queer clinic. She played bass guitar. She liked moths and outer space. She had two birds which she loved. She liked anime and wrestling. And she liked living in Birmingham. She loved her bicycle. She loved exploring the local city. She loved sitting on my front porch, bird watching. And that was the hard part in losing her, itβs like for the first time in her life, she was enjoying herself. We made dreams together for my home, a bird feeder, and twinkle lights. She had a respectful and thoughtful heart. She held space for me and was patient with me through a lot. I feel like sheβs still here, sitting on the front porch smoking, or about to pop into the living room with her bird.
