it is the air between your feathers,
the trust between the two,
it is the blood in your little veins,
to the heart meant not for you.
it is the rain that chases you out,
the kind that falls lightly
it is the warmth of morning sun,
the one that hugs tightly
it is the tumbling and mixing tide,
the rush and then the calm
it is the hand you only trusted,
but crushed you in its palm...

what’s it to be in love, little bird?
is it your ribs splintering that I heard?