For him...

Dear one,

Birds make me think of goodbyes.
The thought of that alone, makes me
Dress in the colour of grey skies.

I'm without what is mine,
intrinsically mine, like a wrist or vein.
Birds make me think of goodbyes.

Sadness roosts, swollen in my
throat like a bruised plum.
My chest is dressed in the colour of grey skies.

In the tangled weave of my
nestless hair, the swollen eggs are resting.
Birds make my think of goodbyes.

The weight of it, the mourning, drips by
my breasts like an overripe fruit, sticking.
The juice of it is the colour of grey skies.

When I think of you
under the bird ridden tree in summer,
I want to wear the colour of grey skies
and birds make me think of goodbyes.