To take you and place you, raised.
You are the dawn.
You take with one hand.
I pry the other hand open and find it empty.
You are to be praised, for your creator’s sake.
Your mistakes, His perfections, sacrilegious.
Bring me towards Him so that I may pray for you to come towards me.
My eyes are closed. And I stumble on words, but not yours.
Distances. I’ve never been enough.
Legs not long enough. Arms not strong enough.
I couldn’t lift you up and I couldn’t let you go.
Regardless, you are to be praised, to be raised. Exalted.
My death is on standby. My calling is mute, mum, moot.

L’amour est un oiseau rebelle.