collecting dust

He said, if anything, I’d collect lighthouses.
I didn’t have to ask why those cold, cracked, waiting and forgotten representations of longing.
I got it.

So, I began collecting feathers.
Almost a full set of wings, now.
I won’t be waiting around.
I could fly right after you.

I could.



He warns me it might be a little cold, and presses the stethoscope to my chest.  I’d like to return the words of caution, but watch instead as he smiles while listening for irregularities and rhythm.  He pulls away with an air of validation, as though to say: “That’s funny.  It doesn’t sound broken.”

But, instead he just says something like, “well, it’s there,” and that’s all he’s asking for, right now.