Hummingbird

I got you, little hummingbird in my chest, drumming swiftly against my pulse, (beat, beat) thirty miles per hour.
Rest your little world-torn heart, leave a feather on my skin-step; I’ll leak droplets to quench your thirst.
Cup you in my hands; your tiny bones, your ruffled cage, wings flitting against my fingertips.

You’ll fall if you’re set free; do you want to be let go?
You’ve carved your space between my ribs, settled under my veins; won’t you build your forest in my breaths?
I won’t mind, won’t mind at all, little baby hummingbird, so long as you’re soft and warm and your sweet quiet noises reek of joy.

I’ll keep you safe, lock and key—rusty, creaky, far from harm.
You want to grow, you want to fly; little chick are you certain?
My blood is good company; so sing a duet with the gentleness in me. I’ll turn it summer spring inside; I’ll only die when autumn comes.
I’ll never let winter get to you, will never bear my eyes from you: shivering and cold and brittle, freezing off.

Little hummingbird, the heartbeat of my chest; if you could leave me for good, will you stay instead?