I trace my fingers across wings as fragile as a butterfly’s. These are mine. They shoot forth from a back that twists too much. A fingertip is all use for I might crush. There is much beauty to touch. They let her fly into my dreams. They carry her through life, these fragile wings. They flutter when she sings along to the radio as graceful as a bell rings. She knows all the words and even though I have heard every line a million times like a hour chimes I still find the wonder in it all. This rush of wings drives my hand to write. I fight for each flutter, each flap, til I have nothing left. I own only the love that she has given to me. But I own these wings that others can’t see.
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