Two birds sit aching, spatially evasive -- fear and loathing of the shaded (though they're emotionally equated, secretly elated and hopefully fated).
Destiny is quite a fancy word (and yet it comes to work on both their nerves), building pressure and removing censure to erupt into a small "hello."
An awkward brush and a folded note deny the innocence of greeting, belying fears of never meeting someone
(anyone)
Flung into a fruitless flight of measures to endeavor a journey of love and pleasure, both will lose their footing putting each in rivaled pressing danger;
He will change, she will build
things will stray, they will tilt
Wrong is wrong, right's a fight
Tension, stress, deep-seated fears; we make you then and leave you here.
Your love is like a red-red thing -- trapping, circling and besmirching.
My love is lifeless, salmon pink -- withdrawn and bated, nearly plaintive.
My love is not your love, our love is not their love.
Spitting, squawking, shuffling about, the birds take their leave and resume their route.
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