Between Bruises & Blooms

There are birds inside my chest
made entirely of unsent things.

Questions.

Apologies.

Ordinary moments I almost shared.

They pace against my ribs, searching for an open sky.

Some stories never reach their destination.

Not because they were unworthy—
but because someone closed the window before morning.

So I folded every unfinished sentence into paper cranes.

If they cannot find you,

perhaps they will finally find me.