The birds sang so sweetly
outside my window
that evening.

It was as if they knew,
felt, my shifting pain.

Their songs were nothing
like the early morning tweets
or harsh afternoon calls.

Their music carried lightly
across the sky,
like a helium balloon caught
in the breeze.

I stared into the mass of
bamboo stalks and vines,
feeling tears roll down as
I looked for the birds.

I wish I could change things
from the last few months.

If only we could have listened
to those birds together and
talk about the magic of everyday things.

But you don’t believe in magic,
living in a world so black and white
one becomes dizzy of its
ever-changing parts.

I know the twinkle I saw
everytime our eyes met was real,
and that the fluttery, happy gut feeling
was real too.

I would call those moments magic —
something special —
but I know you’d call them ordinary.