the dying of a blackbird.

rip the air from my chest like you’d pluck
the ripened fruit in midsummer; i assure you,
that-breath was only swirling words of longing
again, and we both don’t want that. it’s true of
all bated breaths – i think, the summer air
is to blame. my body is accustomed to the cold,
the warmth that envelops the summer winds
triggers something akin to the diving reflex,
and by that i mean the heart comes first.

i've kept you nestled within my ribcage &
every time you tried to stretch your wings;
i, a coward, responded with mortar-and-brick.

every breath was incendiary.
inhaling brought a vortex of jagged thoughts
that ripped apart your mourning songs to
wisps of diminuendo notes.
exhaling the withered remains,
elucidated the realization it was
hauntingly beautiful like the organ
hidden in the crux of the luray caverns.

when my tongue first met your verses,
i did not know it’d stain my palate
forever. would you believe me
little bird, if i told you that your words
dug deep into my papillae
and sprouted into saplings
with roots entrenched in
your cosmos.

i wrote to you once,
confessions & confections

(“…it was the second shower of rain in quick succession that roused me. within seconds, every part of me ached for you. i remember you laughed when i told you it felt like the opposite of getting a thorn stuck in your finger, not the relief but again i digress. the petrichor always smelled of home, i think that’s why rainstorms always pushed me to you…
…i'm a living mausoleum that you vandalized, you etched your words deep within my walls, i chewed on them and bared them for the world to see.”)

wrapped with inane musings,
tug on the ribbon and i promise you
everything will unspool.

every propped verse
every verse never inked
every morose wanting
every sunset you’ve spilled
every soft word we’ve fractured
every thriving marigold

…especially the marigolds.