I Think I Would Like To Let You Go

i think
i would like
to let you go
(only for a little
while),
songless bird.
i want to experience
loneliness,
solitude,
silence.
i want you to experience it,
too.

i want you to call your mother
and tell her you love her the most.
i want you to call up your brothers
and bet on a game or two against them.
i want you to call up your only sister
and tell her you are sorry for protesting
against her radical ways of child rearing.
i do not want you to be fearful of your family
anymore. 

go to church with your father,
listen to his sermons like you did before,
to the stories of his football years that regaled you,
be easy once again with your blood. 

i want to experience what it is like
for someone to come back to me.
i need you to tell me new stories.
i want to know what it’s like to
miss you
instead of missing myself.

tell me about the girl on the train
that you took out to dinner,
wearing your favorite shirt and sweater.
stripes—she likes them, too. 

tell me about the con man
you lost eighteen dollars to
just because you felt so lucky
on a cloudless day in the city.
what did you eat for lunch
that day, scrambling for spare
change, currency crumbs
in the pockets of your only
winter coat?

tell me where you found your song,
homeless bird.
on the rooftops of overcrowded
apartment buildings with windows
that girls sing out of,
with windows that boys climb out of,
sliding down the fire escape,
with windows that fingers and shoulder blades
press against
so willingly?

leave me for love,
for stories,
i need to write more poems about you.
then make your way back to me,
songless bird
when the music no longer
entices you.