if we had wings

I sat on your couch,

sucking on the end

of my highlighter pen,

the glossy pages of text

blurring.

You drew my leg across your lap,

uncurling my clenched toes.

And on the stereo, the sound Mumford and Sons 

strummed the strings of catharsis in my heart.

You looked at my face –

paled, poised, distant

and knew my thoughts had pooled

into an imaginary place.

And so, eager to draw me back,

you placed a hand on my cheek

and kissed me.

The pen dropped from my palm,

followed by a secret tear

that slipped, despite my body's best efforts.

I raised my hands above my head,

as if to say

I surrender,

and so you peeled off the baby blue shirt

that clung to my skin.

As I lay complicity beneath your panting frame,

I felt no pain,

only sadness.

I thought we could be friends.

And the artists on the CD sang

"if we could, we would fly

if we had wings."

I gave up mine

a long time ago.

The End

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