Bird Against the Window

A bird crashed into my window. You could hear its wings shake and move as the mornings came rushing past noon. Lights would peak in from the blinds now and then as the muffled noises of rumbling air conditioners filled the narrow spaces between dusty apartment corridors. The dry eyes of those mornings would have been enough for them to fall asleep all over again, if it weren't for the sound of rain knocking on the old building pipes.

The cold air would hit against his skin as the two continued on, about their fears, and hopes, and dreams. The misplaced autumn day let the time pass slower as the city lake rippled the fading lights of the city against their eyes. Summer wasn't nearly close to being finished. Time never did stop for anybody but maybe it should, just for them.

They'd ought to explain things better one day. To people – that, they didn't mean what you think they said and to let you know they're not all that terrible of a people, because sometimes the things that are said and the things that are meant, and the sentiments along the way disappear into the thin and angry night sky. 

Or maybe I ought to fess up how I felt that one morning– where the butterflies in my stomach were telling me to try a little harder this time around. I was supposed to dance a little slower and a little closer, so that there could ever be the slightest chance.

This would have all been nice, but I'm all too weak and angry and proud.