She put promise on you like she spread butter on toast. And she said every day that she saw your wings. Even though you wore them all the time, she didn’t see. She only saw your crying in a bed made of yesterday’s newspapers; all scrunched up with wrinkled faces.
“It’s hard to start when you’ve already finished” she’d always say as she picked the cobwebs out of your hair.
See – you don’t remember this because it was before I fixed you up and gave you war paint to hide the sorrow in your cheeks. I have a home for you to live in; one that rotates so the same room always sees the sun.
I do not live there and neither do your friends. It is only for you, the wildflowers in the garden and the cherubs in the paintings on the walls. It’s a place that lets you breathe in and out like you don’t need to.
Sometimes the birds sing symphonies and when you’re lonely they’ll carry letters to you; letters from strangers that have lead interesting lives.
I’ll be in the next valley counting spiders and thinking of you. I’ll be flying kites with messages on – words a bit like these.