chordial

It starts, a curiosity, an innocence; a hummingbird dancing in dry breezes. The lightheartedness in each questioning note like a prism in your bedroom window or a faun prancing in dappled sunlight: flirtatious, unreliable, dazzling. “We can get along,” he reassures. “Montreal might eat its young, but Montreal won’t break us down.” The hummingbird moves on to another flower, your prism tangles on its cord. To keep up, you spin a little faster. “I tried,” he repeats,” but you’re not listening, not really present, and his face darkens. “I tried to keep the crowd AWAY!” he triumphs - and holds your attention. But his heated confession spirals into quiet self - introspection, then silence, and though you plead, “Longer, just a little bit longer,” he has fallen out of view.