The flight of a bird can
catch your eye, a
drag of fountain pen across the sky.
You can start to forgive yourself
for that feeling in your chest,
like the end of a movie
or the last day of school.
The bird is a hawk, unfurling its wingspan
inside your heart,
where feathers and love stick like tar.
Your longing is
an express train of wanting to feel home.
So you wait with coins ready in your hand
to buy a one-way ticket.
But they are not your hands at all;
wings - brown and glossed, as if
A feeling that you've been pretending all this time
is overwhelming and you
take off, instinct telling you the way.