If I were a bird on E Street
If I were a bird, I’d live on E Street. I would build a nest on a Persian Silk Tree—for me and my friends and my infrequent lovers. If I were a bird, I’d have a yellow chest that’s easily seen on days when it rains.
If I were a bird on E Street, I’d sing to my lover who I’m so afraid to lose. I can feel him grasped at my finger tips. I can taste him—he feels so sharp—like the extra shot of vodka my cocktail doesn’t need.
And sometimes, I taste him in the honey I add to my coffee on Saturday mornings. (I love a routine.) He loved that I love routines. He’d laugh and joke and poke fun at it but I knew he loved that about me. Just like he loved my clubbed thumb.
Oh, I forgot that I’m a bird in this story… I’m a bird with a clubbed thumb.
I forgot that I feel things through symbols. And sounds. And sensations.
I am a feeler of sensations. A lover of touch and taste and smell. Nothing like my mother and her hard shell. The only shell I’ve got is the one around my neck. The necklace I made the same week I left Moonlight Beach. The same day I had my coffee black… my honey was sitting right next to me.
He held me. He held me like you’d want a lover to. He looked at me with his sorrowful eyes and let me make him one last bowl of curry… with extra turmeric, to make sure to stain his wooden spoon. So that once I’m gone, he’ll see it and think of me. I want him to remember and long for me.
I’m a little birdie with a yellow chest… dying his cookware an orange-yellow hue.