crow. We made love and I kissed her shoulder blades and reminded her of the story of my parents lying to me about children growing wings and she said, ‘My body is not bird-like.’ We were smack bang in the middle, years from the finish, taking nothing for granted. I want to be there again. Again, and again. I want to be held, I wanted to hold. It was the plastic crow. We made love. The wing story. My body is not bird-like. Again. The wings. The love. Bird-like. Again. I beg everything again.
