What to give you
as the word moon is already taken
by more romantic souls than me,
abused a lot and worn out;
flowers die too soon to linger as a gesture,
while all the feathers of a bird
won’t make a bird, and birds
should just be free.
I’ve entered the bookstore
and realised I don’t know the books you like
as much as I thought I did.
Will it mean some,
as I bring you no such presents:
I manage a thought of you in murmuration,
scattered moments such as we have shared,
sound of thousand wings across the sea,
while no spoken word of mine, no words
can find you, or be heard
in spite of my affection.
Maybe I should give you bread,
something to eat, to emphasize
that nothing is here to last forever.
Should we wait then,
as we both don’t know how to move
out of our bird shitted fortresses
well made from the sand grains that blew over from sea,
solid for unpractical dreams
since all the feathers of a bird
won’t make a bird. Still words
won’t cost me much, are free.
I have decided you don’t need
anymore possessions. If you want love,
it’s all that I can manage.