Stunned

Sometimes, he has learned, the eyes of birds weigh more than their brains. Sometimes their bones weigh less than their feathers. Sometimes, while touching her face, he became a boy excited when her eyes exclaimed, “Yes, go on.” Sometimes, undressed, she felt weightless when her body lifted toward him.

None of that extraordinary as the moment she became an etched inscription on a plaque—She Loved, She Would Have, She Was—an odd conjugation of loss, a wound placed within the private museum of his past where light was absorbed after her flight was interrupted by the levitation of accident.

Photo Credit: Ludovic Loiseau