What Owns You

A bird in a golden cage stays,  

even if the door is open.  

It nests inside your clenched hands,  

sings songs heavy with your echoes.  

This is the weight of holding,  

your spine bends toward its song.  

You watch the feathers multiply,  

they are both yours and not yours.  

The seed of possession blooms thick.  

Roots wrapping your lungs so tight,  

the breath you draw could escape.  

But you clutch, thinking it is saving.  

Love unshared is a mirror's hunger.  

Every reflection demands one more.  

To keep it may lose you instead,  

open your hands—see what is left.