Blue, he survived his days in solitude, the resonating echoes of his songbird songs that sang back to him through solitary walls, yes, he lived his days alone and wishing for somebody by his side. His antagonizing paradise welcomed the inviting loneliness. But then she arrived.
She welcomed to him a new world, an uninvited companionship. An old friend, she too, brought her own morose mood and he took her under his wing and together, they found a note to sing and spread their feathers to fly. One note turned quickly into a string of chirps, squawks, and a language created and lost quickly by those who rely upon words. They sang. They screamed. They wanted to make you feel.
She made him feel. She made him open his mouth and scream confessions, unabashed and unafraid for the first time in forever to expose himself to the elements, or to be okay that somebody left the window open, but both were too afraid to fly outside. Who needs to know the world outside when you have a world beside yourself? And still, they sang on.
He feeds seeds to her, unshelled, when he is still hungry. He would have been her Eden if she had clipped her feathers, yet instead, she dipped her wings in a pool of ink and wrote all over the walls of their own chaos that she was his.
Blue knows he has a strong voice, with or without Sweetie. Although he lets her sit on the higher pedestal in the caged life they love, he does recall the songs he sang before meeting her.
And so when she delivers the promise of a sanctity of union, wrapped in a shell of calcium and coated in an evidence of an orchestra that the two share, and his Sweetie sits and waits on pins, needles, and the two of them walk on eggshells of the newborns past that never survive until their expiration date, Blue sings on. This songbird sings his confessions, but never the words.
I guess that's the problem with being a bird. You can sing, you can hold her close, you can sing the songs you sang before you met her, and the songs you've wrote together, to comfort her sweet sorrowful chirps as another infant perishes before your eyes, but you can never find the notes that confess that yes, she had laid an egg, but, you will never have children together. You can never admit that the fault belongs to you.
And so Blue sings on, because his song helps Sweetie sleep at night, as the two mourn broken eggshells upon their shared pedestal. He feeds her the seeds, unshelled. He screams to her the notes until she forgets. And he prays to an open windowed future, that he can be enough to her, for now.