What is mine, no longer,
nor yours truly,
nor one of us of each other.
With my torn taffeta in your hands
saying goodbye forever,
a colorful parachute behind you.
Myself, traversing to catch
the final shreds.
It's not fair to fall like this,
but who's complaining
on a day where birds
fly into sunlit windows
feeling themselves
infallible in flight.
A day like today,
where I sit plotting
the hidden trajectories
of sharp, invisible objects.