I am eagle; don't be fooled by red silk heels that sound so much like clanking clay on hardwood floors where you and I one night did lay when there was no heat left to warm a chilling breast, when your dense chest fell wet on mine. I found a feather when you left, it lay upon a pillow drenched in you. Perhaps it was inside. It matters not, as I have since then eaten it and cannot prove to you that it did, in fact, exist.
Before I'd ever heard your name or pictured how you might have looked, before I'd seen your constant face -- the one that waits inside dark eyes to see if I can truly fly, or if instead you might just plant my pinioned feet into your waxy wood-grained floorboards, making plumage turn to twigs that dangle down a perfect fruit which you could pluck from your soft bed while I grew old and weary (but I was eagle; I grew light and wild) -- long before I'd brushed your flesh, these wings had taken me to heights much higher than those red silk shoes, those platforms to your dreamworld.
- by C.J. Sage49
My love and I reside upon the belly of a bridge with heartbeats of the sky?--the drums upon the bridge.
I've heard of songs that rise at night from pitch black oceans. I've heard the strums of lyrics made by four hands on a bridge.
My love and I do landscapes for the gardens of the sea. At night we sleep as seedlings at the center of its bridge.
Once I saw a Sufi breathe in seabirds, and send them out again. I've seen people bearing blindfolds near the entrance of a bridge.
My love's old love, he says, had tried to douse him in a moat. He grew gills to save himself and hid beneath a drawbridge.
The masters speak of magic at the middle of the rings where Yes and No chase each other round the props of any bridge.
My love's new love, some say, makes far too much of things as fundamental, elemental, as the structure of a bridge.
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