flightless birds
from the sidewalk, i watch him—
king of the curb, winter asphalt underfoot,
the spring in his step locked and coiled
in his crouching legs. when i speak
he smiles like a tiger and laughs like the moon.
perched in the tree overhead, a silent songbird
bleeds onto his neck and shoulders,
and he looks so alive in red.
i ask him what comes next in the story
and his breathing changes key. in d minor,
he tells me his hands
can't stop folding paper into things with wings
but i don't have to like them.
we meet eyes and he forgives me
for having no lighter,
for having no water to wet the desert
bones of his ribcage,
for everything in-between.
he says maybe things would be different
if i could see his eyes and
he could hear my voice and
we had more audacity, weren't so afraid
of headlights.
i tell him the dirt-rooted truth:
that those ifs are bigger than our hearts.