You watch yourself from the outside.
You can be tired, you say.
You can lie down.
You chew your lip again.
You are terrible at singing the blues.
Remember that bird you had?
The one that sang and sang for her lover,
the one she plucked clean over Christmas to line her nest?
The one who lay pretty, blue eggs and ate each one?
She never got her own name,
because you couldn't love her.
You can forgive yourself, you say.
This is how things work sometimes.
You love and you wait for your love to find you.