Little Heart

I think she flew from my chest, that day. Tearing through soul, trailing bits of blood, leaving loose, dangling veins.
For months, two years, she circled overhead, scavenging bits of kindness, drinking dew, until a pair of pretty hands convinced her to settle on my shoulder. Then, skittish, she cooed in my ear, head hiding in my neck, ready to leave, but still, longing for home.
Now, she has climbed down my arms, and is quiet, cupped in my hands. She is beating in my palms, against my skin. I can feel her bones, so breakable, but still. Still. Her wings are tucked to her side.
She is sitting. Looking around.
Waiting.