this is a truism.

dear you,
i reserve the truth for days like this, when the heat is unbearable and the only way to cool off is to peel back skin until there's nothing left but the bone-white truth, gleaming through.  listen, you may not be a bird, but you sure can fly.  no, stop, listen.  you can.  whether it's through the cumulus-kissed skies or sun-laden water.  i've seen you.  just when you think no one is watching you, you lift off, levitate.  and darling, even then i see your eyes green with envy for those winged-creatures.  you don't even realize what you're capable of.  you don't need wings to soar.  and so what, you're not a bird, but maybe there's a bird nesting in your ribcage.  some days i think i can almost hear him with his feathered-tongue trills, humming along to the livingbeating of your heart.  in fact, i'm sure of it.  some might say no, that's just her heart.  but i can hear his red wings flap, i can hear his song.  and i can hear the way he calls out his name just wanting to be heard.  (it's henry by the way, but i bet, deep down, you knew that.)  look, henry wanted me to tell you this, wanted me to tell you that you may never have his feathers or his gentle morning call but you have magic beyond imagining.  wanted me to tell you about the other side of the fence and how birds don't have lips to smile, don't have bellys big enough for laughs.  he said these things are the stretch of a wing and the glide on the back of the wind and that you aren't a bird, and you'll probably never be, but, that birds have their problems just like the rest of us and - he wouldn't have you any other way.

                                                                     love,
                                                                       me