painted wings

if I paint you on the tips of feathers, 

gold and azure strokes of pigment,

before sending my homing pigeon out 

with his message of love 

carried through the wounded world 

can I be promised in his return to me 

he will have dripped the memories of you 

off the plumes of his beating wings 

into the ocean of forever? 

or will he return 

crested in the dried dye of nostalgia 

covered still in the enamel of fondness

only to molt at my feet 

leaving for me never to rid of 

thoughts of you?

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