This morning is rusted. The cars in a trance, going somewhere.
For hundreds of miles, I haven't heard a call, it's been dull.
The birds are soundless behind these windows and my thoughts.
Down the road we go, the car in a trance where I cry a lonely sulk.
Scrunched face. My eyes disposing tears by the century.
I can't sob, I'm empty and life: a set of matches waiting to be lit.
But thoughts are passerby, forks in the road, thoughts are my freedom's jury.

Do you remember the sunrise, the moss we nailed from the rocks?
How about the time we pushed our paddles in synchronicity to
the flow of the river, only to be caught in a stream, we were sopped.

We came as we were; I was a bird. To you, I stretched, and I flew.
My chirps crisp at light. What did I look like under your blooming eyes?
Was I a scene over the beauty, was I the passerby, did I take away?
I came as your seabird with fishes at hand. A feast so you didn't die.

I became the musician. Violins streaming in vibrato. My voice
in the constellation of your dreams. I gave you stars, orbed, golden.
The sweet pumpernickel I baked, extra yeast at your choice.
The wind brushing our faces from the windowsill. Beds I made, your nightly jolts.
And so you jilt.