you were so percussive.
i zipped my coat and curled my hands in my pockets, nail to palm. swallowed. you had your index finger on my left screw and tightened my wing with a shree, shree.
“is that what you meant?”
you shrugged, passive as always. air thick with paint fumes. a delicate arch of feathers dripping octaves down my shoulder blades. your hand reflected in every plume.
i sipped the oil and wiped my mouth. polished eyebrows, noon-day luster. vague idealistic adequacy in the evening chill, cold so sodden it was almost black.
fly, baby, fly —