Arched under the sky, she was beautiful,
(though others couldn't see it)
she had feathers hidden
(deep in her bones)
in blue eyes like a bird held down
to the slope of the sun
(a glass globe of falling feathers).
The sweat gathered in lines within
her hands that touch the air
around you, fragile
(shatter it, she said),
even as she stands at the edge
waiting for her chest to hollow
(and it burst).
She willed her fingers to spread so she
could join the others,
thousands, with weeping words,
pleas carved into their arms around her,
that she only dreamed of after she woke.
And now it was only air that separated them.
You told her that you could help her forget,
but she shook her head.
Sometimes quiet things aren't meant to be understood, she told you,
but you knew she wasn't a bird.
And that she wasn't silent when she fell,
(so she flew).