Nothing hurts more when you swim in deep to really feel it, when you decided to swallow the sensation hoping to be satisfied and be contented in it yet how unfortunate; deplorable as the beautiful bird who landed sweetly in your hands, sang a humming-song, danced in a tune, looked you in the eye, seemingly loving you would just then fly away, as if you were just another tree, another branch to stop-by. And you contemplate, you think deep, is there a tiny feeling of regret? An anguish on how it sweetly appear for a while but discernibly will fly away. And how would that made a dramatic imprint not only in your memory but immersed into your soul?
You find reasons in your musing, you try to look very hard to calm, sooth your burning heart, the passion inflames and engulf your logic and understanding impaling you to just feel it through whether it would turn-out fine or not, whether that beautiful bird would stay or perhaps not. And you endeavor to convince yourself that eventually it would find a different arm, higher and stronger, but you still succumb in an illogical-emotion thus, making pain inevitable. You tear a little, a prick inside your chest as you watch the beautiful bird fly away.
There’s nothing more to see in the bosom of your spirit. You peek and see just that; you look at the resting-bird in your hands and behold a mirror in its eyes. You see yourself making you suppose all these reflections, shaping your sentiment in that moment of connection. And lo, you realize maybe if you’d glare into its own soul pass your own vision and find happiness therein, you would have taken your thoughts away from your selfishness and share an even weightier-inmost joy that you two would remember forever.
Consequently, you feel a pinch in your finger of its clutching claw but satisfied in knowing the bird’s pleasure in its rest, and yes you’ll feel a sting in the seat of your love as it flies away but truly delighted by its grasps of freedom.
You survey the beautiful bird in its flight away from you, flapped its wings, hide its feet under its feathered body, without looking back, slowly vanishing from your sight into the leaves of the trees and into the light of sun.
Just a temporary route; a detour.