PAPER BIRDS

 Tea cups rattle with a heavy sigh when finally the sun calls it a day.

I hold a pencil between my fingers but my brain is thinking of paper birds flying through my favorite city.

They are romanticizing fallen stars and angels, without knowing how much it hurts to fall.

Time moves between them as the marbles of a five year old, in dimensions we are yet to name.

They speak in accents that are not theirs and when someone asks their names sing some heavy, sophisticated word. 

They quote Fitzgerald inside a bar, holding hands (wings) of a one night stand.

They take wrong turns in every street in hope that they will never reach home.

They wish to get a decent picture of them in the back ground of an unnamed monument so that they can upload it with a funny caption. 

They shed turquoise tears while quivering a little after reading Hardy.

They murmer in their sleeps about the girl who talked back, quenching their fragile male ego. 

They cover the old age with henna, laughing loudly, showing their yellow teeths.

They paste themselves in post cards standing among a thousand birds with same eyes of fear.

They study compound interest and simple interest compelling the gypsy soul to sit still and concentrate. 

They design mandalas out of blood of women who was stoned for adultery. 

They unpack their smiles once in a while with someone's long lost ankles in their hand.

They find solace in golden threaded history books with crisp cotton pages. 

But 

They die when I close my eyes, singing myself to sleep, a cage I hold with locks of pills whose name I don't know .

//I think in my pastife I was a dragon because there is fire in my lungs that burns the lines of my mouth. //

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