The forest was covered with the feathers of my father.
Shot down as he sidled towards the sun with a wicked grin,
swallowed hole by the hungry, hectic hands of God’s Earth,
until at last he was home, and all that remained was a skull and some feathers,
and I found myself treading the boards,
boring the trees with a tale of the first time I fell in love.
I wish things were different,
but there is no need to worry.
I call you,
just to fall asleep to your voicemail.
Again and again,
again and again,
and again, I accept that if I’d met you when I was young and pretty,
you would be the outrage and heartbreak that I’d bring home to the hot tempered, hell bound King.
I’m not cruel when I say these things, you know.
He told me himself,
of his fate and mine,
shouting and spitting as he slipped away,
and I turned away,
hoping to be haunted by something more hopeful than the disapproval of a dying man.
So I wander the forest,
waiting for you to find me,
waiting for the treasures of nature to not remind me of what I’ve lost and let go.
I call you,
just to cry to your voicemail,
but you answer,
and I don’t know what to say.
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