image via we heart it
A bird came to me
wounded,
its wings open and tender,
its heart beating fast
from falling.
So I cared for the bird
for many days,
wrapped its wings,
held it in my hands.
Until one day
it wanted to fly away.
And I cried and cried
because I had grown
to love the bird,
but it had healed
and didn’t need me anymore.
So I held it close,
one more time,
to hear its wings
against my heart.
Then I set it free,
hoping that someday
it would come back to me.
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