Soaring

A quiet afternoon, 

sun streaming 

sideways through dark 

curtains, leaves 

rustling, faded nearby. 

Capturing light 

and moving it along 

in the shape of 

skin and latitude, 

it’s a simple “touch me”

 written in code 

on moth’s wings. 

Before and after, 

a plaintive call 

to find a place inside someone 

to hold and be held. 

The birds don’t question heights 

or currents when they fly. 

Bravado is letting go; 

we are both dark 

and heavy on our own.

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