If You Love Someone

“I’m falling in love with you.” I mumble.

She looks disappointed and says, “I told you–”

“I know.” I interject before she can continue; before I can’t continue. “You told me that you are a creature of the air; you need to be as free as a bird. Well, I’m down here, looking longingly up at you, hoping you will teach me to fly too.”

“I told you…” She repeats and her face is sad and serious.

“I know,” I say.

Tears fill my eyes. I’m walking without the memory of starting.

My car drives me home where I sit with my head on the steering wheel; thoughts tumbling like hyperactive acrobats.

My heart is bursting and sore and a burden.

“I spoke too soon.” I whisper to myself.

Finally I get out of the vehicle and walk towards my small apartment.

And there she is, standing by my front door.

“How did you get here so fast?” I ask.

“I flew.”

And then she laughs, so beautifully she laughs, and I’m crying and laughing and her arms are around my neck, her mouth tickling my ear.

“I’ll teach you to fly.”

And I pull her into my arms, trying to pull her in to my heart.

And there’s something strange about the feel of her back. And there’s a perfect white feather by her feet.