There was an emerald bird. It was right here, right here on my side. Its feathers shined like a killer’s knife under the glimmering light of a bookstore's sign. It used to sing for me every morning and every night, and I used to lay there - abandoned and peaceful - as its songs embraced me.
It loved me, in its own strange way. I could tell by the way it used to stare at me when it thought I was still sleeping - or by the way it gently brushed my head with its wings, when I used to hide in my room and weep because of death and life and everything inbetween.
It loved me, in its own strange way. I could tell by the way it used to stare at me when it thought I was still sleeping - or by the way it gently brushed my head with its wings, when I used to hide in my room and weep because of death and life and everything inbetween.
One night - I remember this clearly, as the pain is still vivid and heavy in my heart, as raw as fresh meat - I opened my eyes. It was dark and quiet.
The emerald bird had left.
I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn’t dare to move, afraid of the faint cracking sound of the open window. The curtains slowly danced and I felt like the best days of my life had gone.
In just a few seconds, I had realized I was nothing, nothing at all.
