They don’t make ‘em like you anymore

T. Alba, they don’t make ‘em like you anymore. You float through everyone, maybe even above them. There’s something about you, that I can’t put my finger on - all consuming in a way. Like you ate me up, and spit out the rest. Puked out the rest.

You’re pale - ghostly pale some might say. I might say that you’re pale with fear. The thought of being stuck with yourself, day in, day out. A terrifying trap. Some might say.

You stood out among the tall trees, and swept through them, all at the same time. Just a touch above, and yet misunderstood enough to be forgotten about all together. The intentional quiet. Are you bursting on the inside - waiting to let out the screech of your lifetime, or are you at peace? I think it’s both - it has to be. That’s what I see in me, anyways.

Show too much of yourself, and you’re asking to get mobbed. You move through the shadows - edges of the forests, edges of the day. You’re bigger, better than them, but death by a thousand pecks is still a death nonetheless.

Raspy; you don’t sound like the rest - with what you said or how you said it. In the way that you listened, too. Listened for everything, and nothing at all as I wove my way through your life. As you wove your way through mine.

You watch it all, taking in all of the detail - and yet you scanned over me so quickly that I could have sworn you didn’t see me at all. Your eyes can’t always be trusted - they play tricks on you, or maybe it’s your mind. Anyways, you saw me - that’s for sure.

You saw my spots, too. I’m full of them. Some might say I’m more ornate than you are. But, what they don’t know is that they’re not spots, but scars. Scars caused by the years with you. I wear them proudly - I don’t really have another option do I? They’ll always be here, staring back at you at every glance.

Sometimes it feels like you’re everywhere I go, sometimes I believe it. Sometimes you show up, and take my breath away. It can be the rainiest of days, spent in all the wrong ways. And yet it’s you - who clears the sky and brings the rain back, all in one fell swoop.

Even on the rainiest of days, we spend the nights together. Whether you’re here or not, you fly through my thoughts. Flying in and flying out, but always coming home to roost at the end of the day. Where else are you to go?

You’re running out of home. The homes that you build in others are slowly being torn down, torn up, imploded. The crevices you hide in are feeling too tight, even for you. The thought of where to go is suffocating - freedom can feel like that, you know?

Even I’ll admit it, you’d prefer to be apart. So would I, maybe. It works better that way. What do they say? Distance makes the heart grow fond? I’m not sure about that. When you’re gone I love myself, when you’re here - I love you. What’s so fond about that?

And yet, we’re here. Mated for life. We keep coming back - back to our old hollows and haunts. Back to the same, the different - does it really matter? We’re inescapable, and I’m learning to accept that - but where do you sit in all this? From your perch, what could this possibly look like to you.

Either way, some might say, you’re a hoot, Tyto Alba.