Little songbird

beneath me you hum

as I cup my hands

and feed you pollen

a time before no-longer exists

if they removed my heart for examination

half of you would be wound around

the nethermost ventricle

you may be unaware

I possess a box beneath my bed

scarred with time, varnished poorly

containing all the grief I used to wear

to disguise the hole in my chest

every hour spent

laying in our symmetry

counting time to the sonancy of your heartbeat

I grow roses from what once only bore thorns

almost forgetful

I ever gave up and painted myself with tar

for the feathers to devour

almost convinced

this kind of love

cannot be broken

like a bone, or a well formed promise

attracting the elasticity of the impossible

and when you leave, even if only for a day

I reach for you anyway

with the devotion of a child

laboring to master her letters

one eye to the sky

its endless, unbidden surround.