I need to write you a bird
so you can see what it is like to fly.
And then after you get your bearings,
I will write your bird a clear sky
and have it launch itself upward,
directly above where you had been back then,
when you were happy and whole.
And I will write about your proms and flowers,
slow dances and holding hands,
first days of school and last ones too.
I will write you the three seconds before a first kiss,
and the times you rehearsed your first ‘I love you.’
And your bird will fly over heartaches and hospital stays,
each of which have left you with scars,
visible and not and I will write you well and strong.
I will write you the first time you felt
my heartbeat with your hand slid under my shirt, and
I will write you harvest moons and autumn farm fairs.
Once I am done writing I will sort and stack
and bind these stories into a book that is a mix of
comedy and tragedy, hope and despair, and I will leave it,
opened to the last page where the story abruptly ended
at the November Audubon trail
where our foreheads, noses, and lips first met.
And I am confident that in time,
either today or eventually,
your bird will reappear, land in the book
and nest in you forever.
