Satellites.

The girl with the bird.

It often flies away.

But almost always comes back.

Almost always cause its been a few decades.

If it comes back in a century, it would be stated that it always comes back.

But how long is long before it can be said its gone forever. That its return is hopeless and waiting would be foolish.

Perhaps the bird died mid-flight, holding the words of a far away light just wanting to be heard shining, despite shining bright—

That light that which used to be heard by the girl,

The girl,

The one with the bird—

Or perhaps,

Perhaps he died,

and the bird aimlessly flies looking for beacons to guide towards letters and commas where constellations once used to reside;

dots and dashes in a world full of poems;

last hopeful Sentences abandoned—dimmed and smudged—waiting to be washed before it’s discovered by birds of love.