her eye's ice is less cold when i see her.
she's sitting on a park bench.
there's a bird standing in her hand, and she's looking at it like it was the most wonderful creature in the world.
then, she moves her fingers and lets the bird fly away.
she looks at it while it leaves.
she's smiling, in a nostalgic way.
i sit next to her, awkwardly.
and then she looks at me like i was the bird.
bits her lip, and...
"i have to let you go."
oh.
that's it: i'm the motherfucking bird.
YOU ARE READING
insomnia.
Random«her name was insomnia, and she was the greatest metaphor a poet has ever written.»
