baby bird words

I want to write something beautiful for you and cup it in my hands like a baby bird. I'll take the train to the city centre, walk around the shops for a little bit and then check the clock, leaving on another train to your hometown. All the while my writing is sleeping in my hands like a baby bird.

When I get off at the station I'll walk the way I remember to your house, every corner I innately know. I can walk right up to your door and since I'm holding baby bird I won't be able to knock but I'll wait and then the bird will wake up singing. And it's light purple in the sky, the sun's dipped down, the thrushes in your garden tree are murmuring. Baby bird sings and the words catch you as you're reading your 57th page. You place the book on your bedsheet and take a breath as you listen.

I'll hear a soft rhythm on the stair and the door will open,

you'll look down at my hands with a slight smile

and the words will be there, wriggling over themselves and ruffling their down

you'll take them in your hands and remember how you placed every single one of them in my room, in secret places that I'd find over the course of a day: my bedsheets, windowsill, sock drawer, water glass, hairbrush. I lived and collected them together and made them into something I hoped you'd like.

The thrushes talk a little louder and the baby bird flips its wings tentatively. Some kind of spring breeze brushes low past us and it takes off, above the suburban rooftops. A laugh escapes my gut like an exhale. We watch it as it crosses over, becoming tiny in the dusk.

You step outside, rub my shoulders, kiss my head whilst looking at the point it disappeared.

"You did a really good job. I'm proud of you."