Bird of Passage

You stick your head inside my car like a giant flamingo at a safari park, pushing through a window accidentally left open. Your face stops mere centimetres from mine, eyes pleading. Boundaries have never been your thing.

Not that long ago, you had popped up out of nowhere. A spark of colour, impossible to miss in this concrete wasteland. We ended up spending long summer nights at the lake, smoking and drinking on the hood of my car. We knitted dreams from cotton candy twine and shaped air castles from birdsong, serenaded by Marvin Gaye and the Stones. I stuck to you like a Golden Goose, longing to grow a dazzling coat of feathers of my own. I guess I had a feeling that the autumn winds would carry you on.

What else is left to be said? You take a step back, letting me roll up the car window. I start the engine. I may never learn to fly, but I do blend in with this jungle of grey.