Bird Heart

Who knew I would
find love,
on a
public bus?

I didn’t.
That’s what
made it a
magical -

in a way.

It was
summer
and I
was ready
to get home.

I remember,
the squealing of brakes,
and the muffled
curses
as we all
stumbled.

Then he boarded.

He said:
“I’m so sorry.”
at least
fifteen times.

I couldn’t help
but smile.

His dark hair
fell in his
eyes,

his sad,
sad eyes.

We locked gazes
for a
second,
and I saw
the world.

My brain told me:
“Speak to him!”
and my
mouth denied
the order.

I felt my heart
flutter
like a trapped
bird.
It wanted to
fly
to him.

To sing,
to him.

But it kept it
locked
in my rib
cage.

Then his stop came,
and he left
without a
look back.

And this pattern
replayed
everyday.

He boarded.
I smiled.
His sad eyes,
met mine,
then
we looked away.

My bird heart
sang
to itself.

And I knew -

I was
in
love.

I laid
awake,
one night
and I
said to
myself:

“You will
talk to him.”

And my mouth
agreed.

The next morning,
I prepared,
I rehearsed,
and I
let my heart
sing.

To work
I went.

The only excitement came,
when my
co-workers
crowded the office
television,
whispering urgently.
One crying,
another saying:
“What a shame.”

In the distance,
police sirens
sang.

I ignored them,
not wanting to
dampen my
mood.

Then I rushed
to the bus.

His stop came...

and
he
didn’t
board.

I felt
my bird heart
still.

I cried once
I got home.
How foolish,
was I?

Very.

The next morning,
on my
day off,
I turned on the
news.

“Yesterday afternoon,”
the anchor man
said solemnly,
“we witnessed
a jumper.

Today the identity
was released
of the man
how jumped.”

I felt
my singing heart
die
when they showed
the picture.

It was a boy
with dark hair,
and sad
sad
eyes.