Dear Little Bird On a Branch

you are a thing with feathers

grey blue with a golden sheen

and i’m watching your beak

the way it stretches so wide, gaping

like a wave. about to crash to shore.

a mouth hungry for particles.

and i’m listening to your song

and i’m hoping it’s about me

even though i am not a bird

and i cannot fly.

you see,

i am thing with skin, stretchy and pockmarked

and not very glamorous.

my lifespan is long enough for regrets.

my babies are not born in an egg;

i won’t feed them any worms

and i can't sing. 
at least, not very well.

but if you give me a chance

i can climb up there next to you

slowly. and I might slip. more than once,

but I’ll do it for you, if you chirp for me.

and we can watch the world

from our perch

and let the sun paint us golden red

as its rising rays make us squint

and look away. it’s only in the peripherals

that we can ever really see each other;

when we can’t distinguish the details

that make us different, we can transform

into anything we want.