The Birds I Buried in Your Name

I missed him.

And at the mere whisper of his memory,

the dead birds of my heart stirred—

restless, air-starved,

they lifted themselves

into a trembling sky,

searching for the breath of him.

I ached

for one I never held.

Tell me—

can the heart mourn

what it never possessed?

Can it crave

what it knows

will never belong to it?

Have you ever

given your heart’s wild birds away—

without reason, without return—

into the keeping of another soul,

one that neither shelters

nor knows how to hold?

Have you ever drifted

through the boundless sea of their absence,

and there, in fragile illusion,

built a future—

untouched by past,

unclaimed by present,

unpromised by any tomorrow?

Have you ever stood

on the endless road of longing,

waiting for love

to pass you by—

hoping, still,

it might stop?

Have you ever been made drunk

on the shimmering lie of love?

Have you ever danced—bare,

unhidden—

upon love’s thin and trembling thread,

only to swallow your own shame?

I never set

the birds of my heart free again.

They fed on the hollow seeds

of your love,

grew fevered,

and danced themselves into ruin.

One by one,

they set out

toward you—

only to be broken

against the fractured edges

of my iron-bound heart,

falling lifeless

where they struck.

The rest,

in quiet surrender,

folded into their wings,

whispered a song without breath,

and faded—

as though

they had never been.

And I remained,

alone—

with the slow,

inevitable decay

of my heart.