Birds on the wire, singing our silence home,
ghost notes of every word we left unspoken.
I follow their flutter—your laugh in the feathers,
a sky still learning the shape of goodbye.
They circle the dusk like loose threads of light,
carrying small hearts stitched with winter and wonder.
If they never land, maybe time stays open;
maybe the wind keeps the promise we couldn’t.
Fly, little echoes—through cracks of tomorrow,
tell her the world is still soft where she left it.