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Oct 2020
I struggle to bring my attention to my fingertips
I’d like nothing more than to allow my hands to give words to the buzzing
I dream of scraping out the navy-blue lead feathers that swim in my stomach
Their quills pricking into my ribs and dusting my lungs
Turning the air inside them to crystals, betraying the trustful inhales
They claw their way out in the exhales, tightening my throat a little more every time
Navy-blue used to feel like an anvil pulling my heels down through the soft moss
Into the cold mud and slamming through the hard clay like a boreal quicksand
Now it feels more like the only thing that’s keeping me from floating away
It’s the only thing that I can remember, but the memory itself I can’t recall
It’s something I’ve felt before in some lifetime, but a ball and chain for this body
Now it’s nothing more than cold wind blowing linen against my ankles
Sea spray stinging my cheeks, leaving them red as the cardinal’s song
The black and blue bruising waves waiting to stick to my belly as I fall
I fall by the ribbon, carried by the bird who bears the night sky on his wings
The fall isn’t sad, it’s not angry- it’s still, guided and quiet
The type of descend that could quench an arsonist’s thirst
To steady the nomad into a static heart
The speeding air that could leave scorched, a glacier
I was born on a Monday, the day I feel it the most
When my toes grow numb from the wet stone
My wrists dance in the suspense of flight
Tuesday morning I bring my attention back to my fingertips
The cardinal sings his song to the blood safe within my skin
And the Night Sky bird dives with his ribbon undone
Written by
Silver  26/F/Earth, maybe.
(26/F/Earth, maybe.)   
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