“Love is not a yellow bird to perch upon your finger, singing,” I say to you, watching carefully for the reaction of your hands, which tentatively draw into fists and then open again. We have reached a new morning and are side by side in bed. I watch you stretch—becoming catlike—the sleep from your smooth body.
Your eyes seem certain and dark, with a small bright window in each where they reflect the dawning light.
What I meant to say is that I have fallen for you. I am now falling.
In the night, I crossed through a dream that became the whitest clouds blooming into the bluest sky. Soon, the clouds became doves quick to flight. And, though I tried, I could not chase after them.
“I admire you,” is your reply after a long, thoughtful silence.
I am not disappointed that you do not love me. I touch the back of your hand with a single finger and imagine a yellow bird taking flight.
--Mitchell Hegman
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