For some reason,
I'd always imagined your hands as birds attached to the cuffs of your shirt
Tied with red ribbons to the tethers that must've been your arms
Those beautiful little white birds, flapping their poor, dear, little wings
Trying to get away from the stark starched cotton that contained their tiny yellow feet.

I would watch you make them dive and swoop about the air;
We all would.

For the longest time I wondered if I could set them free somehow
In some bizzare turn of events in which everything dreamed could somehow be made real.
And so I plotted.

Diagrams were made
On large cardboard squares I hid in my closet from my mother

Hitmen were called

Strings pulled,
Getaway helicopters arranged

Until finally, the day arrived
Upon which your lovely, pale captives would be emancipated.

Passing you in the street by accident the very day of my planned liberation act,
I accidentally brushed your hand with mine.

And that's all it took.

One simple uncalculated touch
And all my strategies were laid to waste.

That day, I brushed my hand against yours
And that same day,
A flock of four birds went free.