birds have no home.

i never thought of a name to call him. he was a human, but he was my human.

his heartbeat reminded me of a rainstorm, or maybe the axis of a train wheel, but either way i hated how it mattered to me and how cliched the mutterings of a heart became.

i felt like a bird, a yellow-bellied sap-sucker, every time i heard it whispering blood, but that never meant more than an elucidated want for something prettier. it resonated in my own, an echo of some crossed wires and heartstrings.

my heart broke for his, but never in place of it.

i didn't know if it was wrong to want him solely for myself; he didn't know, either. and that was so beautiful- neither of us knew anything worth knowing, but we knew we could not know and we never knew together.

it reminded me of the obsessive letters i would write and say, please come back home. the funny part was home was nowhere.

it was how we would be birds and live in the sky, and just the idea of having millions of miles of home was overwhelming because neither of us could live and neither of us could die,

i thought of how much i wanted you to love me in the way that there were no lines to colour inside, the way a poem has no structure unless it's restrictive like tuberculosis,

you made me feel pretty.