Little Birds ************* By: Gradual Decline I was in love once. I know, Darling, it is something we mustn't ever speak of. But, I can think of nothing else to do with it. I was young, with hair of spun gold and skin as soft as silk. There were as many suitors then, as there are for you now. They battled eachother for my hand and took turns standing beneath my window weaving sweet lies into songs to woo my heart. I stayed true to myself for many years. I never let those delectable sonnets seep into my mind nor into my heart. I kept to my room allowing only the occasional meal to cross the threshold. Father was worried and visited me often. For him I opened the door. If only a crack, it was still enough for him to see me and for me to say I was fine. The thought of being fine even now makes me laugh. I have never been fine. I've always been normal- not like the other girls but, normal enough to be me. My father would come every fortnight. Our conversations then were like all the conversations we'd ever had. They were falsely warm and always left each party feeling empty afterwards. One night I was standing on my balcony breaking bread with the little birds that came with the wind and left with the stars of each hollow October day when I heard a faint tapping at my chamber door. The knock was too soft to be father's so I carried on as if nothing was there. But the woman, as so I had assumed by the gentle sound of her knock, did not leave as I had hoped. The door creaked unhappily and begged me to open her and drain her of her secrets. Intrigued and slightly annoyed I hesitantly opened the door. The woman stood before me a moment and strode confidently into my chamber. I had not the nerve to ask her what she wanted. So we sat, for many hours, in complete silence. During this time I studied her from fiery head to delicate toe. And by the time she left me I felt as if I had known her all of my short life. Though neither of us had uttered a single word my entire being tingled with her essence. Before she left I asked if she would come again. She paused to smile at me and continued on her way. She did not come until I had seen my father twice. The little birds had left me for warmer ground and I was feeling rather alone. Her knock was again faint and I scarce was sure I heard it. We sat again in silence. Her with a book pale green eyes intent on the words. And I with my thoughts blue eyes intent on her beauty. On every natural flaw. On every fold in her skirt. On every whisper of the air around her. I do believe I was obsessed with my personal stranger. She visited me many times over the winter. Each time we sat in scilence. Her with what ever she happened to bring. And I watched her until, even when she was gone, she consumed my every thought. She came once in mid March this time, though, she brought nothing. We sat at the old oak table near the fire as we had ever night before. So we sat for quite a while before she moved. She stood and I thought she was going to leave. But, she stopped and turn towards me. Suddenly in front of me, I had not seen her move. A fair hand slipped up to entwine it's slender fingers in my hair. Painted lips swooped down and touched mine, tentatively. That did not last long. A warmth felt it's way between my lips and then past, reaching for my soul and my scars. I gave myself to her that night. Body, soul and heart. When I awoke she was gone. Her essence still clung to the sheets enshrouding my body and her presents filled the air with a soft, comforting warmth. I waited for many days but she never returned. I was not upset. All the birds were returning and waiting for me outside my gilded cage. The world was bright and wide and waiting to envelope me in it's leafy arms. I packed my things and left, like the little birds, on the stars. I traveled, studying with the foremost ornithologist in the world. He was a good man and when he asked for my hand I could not turn him down. I did not forget her. I never could. I still see her eyes twinkling each night in the heavens. I see her beautiful hair in both the rising and falling of the sun. Her delicate fingers in every branch of every tree. I knew love once, Darling. And the after thought consumes me still. |