It's the thing I miss the most about climbing into an empty cab with you on a cold winter's night, opening the zipper of my jacket as the warmth of the taxi loosens the chilly grip on my hands.
Our heads and hearts were always so full of music, and for some reason that I never understood you didn't care when I leaned on my cane like some old cripple, holding onto your shoulder like an anchor to keep me from falling.
You took a sip of my water, smoothed your skirt over your knees. Damn, I wish I could be half so holy. Even Will Shakespeare understands you.
And we saw the bat fly over in the dark, and we nodded to each other. Flesh trapped in the membranes of wings, until we let it go.
And who knows any more than this? You with your wings nailed to the scoreboard?
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