is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze.
wire-wrapping feathers into coats
[and Ill be]
peeling back weather-worn layers,
only to watch you fall.
When your dented beak
finally floated to the ground
It sent shockwaves of despair,
and I named you She Sings To The Sky
Because youd always squawk about thunder
and how you missed it.
But mostly because you sang me lies
about a love you never had.
You were just a kid when I laid
out purples and pinks among the leaves
trying to ensnare you from the sky.
I was scared of you, once
only because every time those blackened
eyelashes fluttered I saw your lightning
hop over rain droplets to stay dry.