Sometimes I wonder if you took the birds with you when you left. If you took their voices, their songs, their wings; like you took mine.
The birds were once mine ; I’d listen to their songs and their stories early in the mornings, when no one else but me and the world were awake, when the silhouette of the sun and I were one.
You wrote me a poem once, sometime after we had split and you spoke about my mornings and my birds ; even after you clipped their wings, some part of you had the audacity to bare blood too me with feathers like you hadn’t taken them away, like you hadn’t torn the sun in half.
I tried to convince myself that the birds were still mine, and that they would only be mine ; but when I listen to their songs now, all I can hear is the absence you left inside of me.
