I wrote a poem that I've since forgotten —
about golden nightingales,
about tiny dogs in tiny caskets.
One day, when I find the words again,
I'll sing to you like my mouth's
all piano keys and the moon's
the last light in the hallway.
I can never quite see what's
in your hands but your
eyes look at me the way a bird
looks to the trees, hungry for a
nest of her own. I'm pleading
with you ---- ----- -- ------.
I'm just a home with smaller bones.
Photo credit @laurarbenson on IG.
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