“I cannot die,” he said, and
that was all I knew of him.

It was October then, so I
pinned the last firefly to his sweater
and told him the fever would break.
“It will not,” he said. We kept
that secret just between us and
never breathed a word.

One morning I crept home
and painted pictures for an hour
before he flew silently into
my room. “Your prison looks
just like mine,” he said. That day
we made too many promises
to count on our twenty freckled fingers
and crushed each one with the same
four hands. The black dove tattooed
on his wrist just grinned at me, with
thick feathers on fragile skin
and perfect wings not made to fly.
He escaped with a wordless smile and
a disclaimer that he simply could not
wrap his mind around the failing heat.

Three weeks later I stayed up
until dawn with that sickness.
As the sun rose softly into November
I swear I saw him stretch his wings
and speed blindly into the light.
“I told you I couldn’t die,” he said and
I watched him slam into
the freezing ground.
I never asked where he landed.