It hurts like a broken bone,
a broken wing
tucked under the shivering body
of a baby bird that believed
it could fly.
From so high,
gravity seems a distance worry
to those who actually care
about the future.
And why care,
when the present is so sweet.
Your hands combing through my hair,
strumming my strands like an abandoned guitar
playing some music as an attempt to be
peaceful, like how our heart beat.
Mine, once pounding,
is but a resounding echo in this place.
I let my heavy eyelids close,
and you slip back into the translucency of my dreams.
The dreams in which
when we picked up the baby bird
from the sidewalk,
I stood on your shoulders and together
we gingerly returned it to its nest,
to its bed.
Of course it does.
It's the same kind of pain knowing I couldn't save
that little life,
for it was too bold, and a little less wise.
It hurts in the same way
knowing some things are broken,
and others are dead.
And though I can't breathe life into dust,
at least I can say I tried.
I tried so hard.