I was showing my

little bird

a swooning

rectangle of light

coming from the window;

it made a perfect shape

as it touched  the bedroom tile.

 

That serenity

couldn't thrive for long.

I,

myself,

was touching the same space on the tiles,

bloodying my palms

with the bullets that

had pierced the

light of this day.

 

I was gutless

within minutes.

 

My bird hasn't been fed

or let out of the cage

during the city's fall.

He has been looking

at my corpse

for two weeks

now.

 

Tomorrow

is my birthday.