Today I’m only asking for one thing: for you to unbox a pair of hummingbird wings for me. Something slender and sea foam green and see through. Just shave a space and jam them in. Lie here prone with me, while the living room drowns us in sunlight. This bottled water has bubbles I wasn’t expecting. They make my heart beat that much faster. Feet leaving the ground. Arms slapping the wind. I’ll never be young again, I know that, but I can still watch the beautiful people on TV do it for me. They die each night, for my entertainment, kissing each other madly on sea side cliff or a burning ferris wheel. While we tie our fingers together, safe and tired, and say, Maybe next year.