Raven Eyes
When I take off as a raven,
the branch wobbles
my dark figure melts into the night.
No pack, no company
aside from the starlights—
they were once
alive, but now all there’s left are
fragments of tears from
somewhere above, is it heaven?
I wouldn’t know.
Wearing shadow of night itself,
I glide through the air.
Beneath me, a city in neon fire.
Cars rush below—
one place to another.
The suffocating air is filled
with nylon lies woven between
patched love, silenced truth,
and money slipped through envelopes.
I never understood that part.
My eyes spot the candlelight
from a small apartment window—
bright dancing orange, but dead as the stars.
I fly closer, in the window,
a young girl with silk raven hair,
inking silence with a long white quill.
Her lips unspooling low syllables
too old to rhyme with time.
The girl looks up—
Our gazes lock—
but she recognizes me, not the raven.
The shape of my own eyes
waiting in hers.
Candle light falters,
the night twists into a swirl
and drags me in with force.
The dead starlights flicker alive—
—I wake up at midnight,
breath caught in the echo of her gaze.
Outside my window,
a raven flies past—
I feel the wind in my chest.
Copyright © Jasmine Tsai | Year Posted 2025
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