When we fell off the plane

Walked into Penn Station and smelled metal
hot against the snow. Someone had been welding,
meeting seamless planes aside the bus line.
I was listening to Gene Stoval sing Courtney Love
and a song about working for Bush and W. Bush.

I was thinking rather literally,

about what my girlfriends had said.
"The last part to leave is always
the part you hold onto
and think you'll never find again."
I had walked in and found that on our bed.

The houses have new roofs,
white and too cold for bird feet.
The swish in the air is the direct product of wind
and the change in seasons.

See, I'm looking for someone who will dance with me,
who shares my vision about more than the divine.
"Being validated is not enough:
you want to be known."

We built a humble castle,
a three-bedroom apartment in Wilkinsburg,
where we treated our dog as a neglected step-child.
He used to share my bed.
I used to be a princess, but my human nature
has been locked in, humility imposed.
"No one really changes,
even if you bring out the best in each other."
No one really changes, love.

But love changes,
over time it has stretched and flexed and spread its wings.
I have seen it waiting in the branches of leafless sycamores,
chasing skipped stones into the ocean,
sleeping at strange intervals on my couch,
road trip after road trip.
It sometimes gets stuck in my teeth,
or woven into my hair,
often placed delicately into song.

You are this love, the love of now,
a celestial and timeless friend,
and a tenderness I will never fully let go.
It's just that
a crow flew away with your light,
and I held in too much breath
to grow a new flame.