a glass wing kept beating
behind the wallpaper.
i fed it honey
through the seams
and called it mine.

on the third thursday,
the moon blinked out.
you spoke in echoes,
spilled mirrors
across the floor.
i swept them up barefoot.

every silence
was a string in my mouth.
i pulled it,
thinking it might unravel you.
instead, it sewed me
shut.

the garden grew
upside down.
i watered the roots
from the sky.
you wrote your name
on the underside of a cloud
and said you never meant permanence.

meanwhile,
i lived beside the sound
of an unopened door—
**** warm,
hinges aching.

you said the map burned.
i said the fire had your handwriting.

now, the bird has left the wallpaper.
it’s made of smoke and backward time.
i watch it spiral
into the somewhere
you didn’t take me.