The Paper Birds

I love birds. My father used to make paper birds for me when I was five.
He broke my heart when I was seven.

“Where do birds go to sleep?
Where will we go, I weep.”

His hand was like the beach;
this warm, toasty place
where nothing could ever go wrong.
I never looked at a paper bird
again after.
Until him

It surprised me.
Those swans burst of colour;
at the most unlikeliest nooks and corners.

‘Swans are forever’,*I loved him even more then, just for the birds*
he always said
as he held my hand tight
I will never let you go tight.
I wrapped them up in special tissue paper,
tucked in tight.
I believed him, my entire heart, my entire me
believed him.

“When I hear bird song, I feel this strange uplifting
feeling, joyous almost
At dusk, when they fly away I wait stubborn for a moment or two
for them to call me too”

I found her number on a swan
in his pocket, a bright blue swan.
so happy and free
and not me.

“I hate them paper birds even more now.
They tease of the joy, of this sweet
pure freedom, we’ll never know ourselves”

I had never told him about the paper birds
and yet still it breaks me again.

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