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Love.
Was it like the first flutter of wings,
a bird’s maiden flight,
Or like the hatching, the new chick
breaking into the world.
Perhaps at first,
when the ‘firsts’ are still happening
and every day waking beside him
is fresh, full of possibility.
But with familiarity comes boredom,
repeats of a sitcom you know
all the words to.
Comfort can become a wicked thing.
It leads to routine, the same-old,
predicting the day when you wake,
no longer holding the hatchling chick
of possibility.
It frightens you,
this human habit of repitition,
it doesn’t suit your nature,
you’d rather follow the bird
that migrates and
follows the sun.
You rebel,
against the familiar, the predictable,
and in time, against him.
Throwing at him all your frustration
and dissatisfaction.
Until one day, you wake
and look at him
and in a stab of realisation
you see that you have
neglected your fledgling bird
and it has left you.
You are alone, again.
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