I’m like a bird, I only fly away!

When we first got together and I’d act like a bird,

you’d say:

You can push as hard as you want, I’m not going anywhere.

I would lunge against boundaries,

toss myself into self-imposed walls,

sprint as far as I could trying to find the line where you’d say: Enough.

You’re too much.

I can’t do it.

But you never did. Instead you’d say:

Is that all you’ve got?

Hey, when you’re tired of that, I’ve got a cask of wine, homemade risotto and an old Italian movie to watch with you.

Get in my arms. You’re safe.

And maybe you didn’t promise it outright, but this is what I heard:

I will always want you.

You will always be the perfect amount.

Don’t go anywhere.

Why didn’t you fight for me?

Were you sick of fighting?

Did I finally wear you out?

Did I grind you down to dust?

Because when I was standing in the house,

my hand on the matchbox,

asking you for any final words;

even when it was a hostage situation where

the words would have been empty, just to get me to:

You didn’t say a word,

then.

For years I’ve been waiting for you to shut up.

To just take a breath so I could speak.

So why now?

What piece of this is the cat who has stolen you voice?

Because I don’t remember you like this.

Even in your most defeated days,

you’d still beat up a stranger if the

vibe was wrong.

What did I do to make you stop loving me?