I could not understand whether you were saying, "I'm fine" or "I'm flying," and so I assumed that you aspired to do the latter. That was before I kissed you, before you left me.
I slept with my fingers wrapped around your ideas, and so, in a sense, I hoped to fly. The scenery on the television matched my dreams. That was before.
Later, I could not understand whether you were interrupting yourself, your sweet mouth deciphering the best shapes, or whether a thought punched through, the meat of its fists more important than finishing what you started.
So I decided that your specialty was grabbing at the air, a fine display, posturing from the ground to get a running start, and I tried to give you enough room for your wings.