Little Glass Bluebird

This is a work in progress

Draft #2

Little Glass Bluebird

I run my thumb
over scars from a crooked
price tag and fingerprint bruises
across your breast,
remembering when I burnt
my feet on the pavement,
dropped the newspaper,
and ripped open
your yellow envelope.

You slid into my hand
with a mix CD
and a letter from a friend
scribbled with smiling
stick figures, trees,
and the sun in black
pen at the bottom.
It read, “I bought this
seven years ago,” and “crazy
how time flies.”
Didn’t mention
how she was doing or explain
why she wanted you to be mine.

I rambled a two-minute
thank you on her voicemail.
Didn’t mention
how I was doing or explain
what you meant
because I know
she knows--
we’re too fragile to carry
happiness alone,
yet you’d make me believe
I could support its weight,
knowing in the end
happiness might break us.