I took a bird from your hair when I was kissing you
--or, perhaps, I placed it there.
You see, I become as forgetful as surf, as unreliable as air.
That night, I carried my stolen bird inside my sweatshirt,
the one you lifted off my arms,
to sample the warm melt of me, a lighted wick within a wax-filled jar.
That night, the bird sang, causing the moon to rise.
How can you send me away, alone,
when the sun is none the wiser and my heart, like my bird's,
beats so rapid--poor brief thing!-- and so strong?