I threw bread on the ground
watching, as the rivalry begins
black birds swooping down
chasing away their fair-weather friends

the birds, every one, trying their best
back and forth, the fight, the hurt
each piece a new conquest
while only a few feet away, more bread lay in the dirt

the lines on our hands
mingle with the
roughness of the fibre

of our skins

talking of touches
long spent

-

there are grooves decorating
our feet

our soles are flattened

only reminders of the places we've been

-

crinkles beside our mouth and eyes

they speak
of smiles
to faces
whisper of tears
in air

-

sometimes
we forget
we drift


*and just like the last time,

we're drawn into the story that never finished
- a story never told

I try to catch my words like fireflies
and store them in a jar.
I cannot.
Whenever I lift the lid to speak again,
the jar talks to me...
And off they fly.

In the silence,
inspired thoughts
make pleas for their own release.
Within moments
they are captured by another,
no longer mine.

Anything but silence is futile
when it comes to liberating
the true meaning of my fireflies.