And the rose clouds bloom overhead, and the trees soften. So quiet I hear your breath, the pull and push, the warm bellows. Now it’s a blackbird; that inquisitive song, that rushing, flowing tumble of brittle voice.
I met you in the gap between night and day, in the opening of a shell, in the sliver between knowing and choosing.
Ugly word, choosing. Like something lewd. Something coy, a word that hides its obscenity behind frilly lace curtains, a word that lies about itself.
The birdsong we think is so pretty – it’s all fucking and fighting, after all.