remember when

a stranger on the corner

of Haight and Ashbury

told me the story of how birds

got their wings

and when I saw you that night

I whispered it in your ear

while you closed your eyes

and smiled

but listen

his tale was just a myth

as much I’d like to tell myself

you grew wings and flew

you cannot paint in watercolor

on paper as coarse as your tongue

without having it bleed

my windows are tired

from being open so long

and I am still alone

counting my thoughts like sheep

so I pick up your fallen feathers

to dip them in ink

before I forget