you are a bird painting another bird as it flies off the page
magnifying the moon, a white smear across the face of the sky
beaming directly upon the cream colored paper
as your brush draws inspiration from the violin around your neck
and ink from the half-full vial of poison on the floor
we all look the same in the dark, the walls curve upwards steadily
another bird pecks food from the checkered tile
another bird flies to the window where there is no glass
your palette rests on the table and rainwater drains
onto it in blobs of red, blue, and yellow
nights revolve in imaginary loops; bare feet, feathers, words
half for me, half not for me, but for the other version of you
keeping my hands to myself as you sit on the edge of your seat
still painting the birds to freedom, black on black in the distance
how do i tell you i love you when i say it every day?
i didn’t mention it at the time but the nest was gone from the bridge
and yet you continue creating wings and beaks
and everything is good when i’m with you,
everything is satiated inside me, and everything is a different time again
this world has one sky that will last a thousand years
two miles high and ten long outside
but infinite within us both as we traverse it.
this is the creation of the birds.