Bird in the Sky

She said:

"Haven't written in a while.
Or called.
Can't say I haven't thought to,
because let's face it I have
too much thinking on my hands.

I could take that for you,
that worry.
Don't worry. I'm sorry.

We all became women and men
and began lying with our hands
because we're all just kids.

My mother, she's a kid. My dad, he was a kid.
We're all children with moptop heads and
kissable cheeks and pristine skin.

I dreamt about you then.

I'm learning music so I can communicate.
Well, because I know how to talk,
but I want to say more to you than my mouth can hold
so I like to imagine my hands strumming along
your body (which is a guitar, or ukulele, or harp) and saying
'"I love you, I love you, I love you still"', even though
you are angry with me still.

Still.
Still, I imagine you spurning me, and thinking
"'What a crazy bitch"' and "'I did not sign up for this"'
(I always did have a good imagination
and a penchant for putting words in my mouth).

But you once spoke with love and
I once adored and though you never said the words
and though you didn't mean the words
and though you really hated the words
and though you're heart broke the words
You used your hands to strum
and pull and
snap at me, the words.

So I ask for nothing you're not willing to give,
and actually, don't give me anything. Don't write me back,
don't sigh heavily,
don't breathe except to live.
I'll let my eyes put birds in the sky and they'll be
little golden birds but they'll fly
so high up no one will ever see them.

I'll fly so high up no one will ever see me,
except only when you dream.
That'll be me you'll see."

He smiled and put the letter in a drawer. The rain poured, he poured a cup of tea, and the only thing he could hear was his breath. Also, the memory of hers. Yes, that was her that he could see.