Hummingbird The worst part of me is when I'm right. I get this smug little grin and this proud little walk, like I've proved to all the world that I put those soft notes in your voice, the sugar in your mum's cupcakes, and these stars in our skyline photographs. It attaches to me so quickly and it stubbornly moves with me, up the stairs and across the hall around and around with me, like a screw into pine. I should probably try harder. There are times when being right means knowing something's wrong. Like the "temporary" in your silences, and how rarely you cared to visit here. The ache of knowing I might be right, that maybe it had happened again, sat in my mind like a hummingbird. Furiously beating its wings, and so brightly painting itself across me, just the most beautiful reminder that maybe I was right. I hate that. If I was wrong I would have leaned into you so completely there would be an imprint of me tattooed in your arms like the rings in old vinyl records. It would play our pairing every night in our own little jazz club: scratchy tune, smoky faces, two fingers of whiskey, and wooden stools that hold us. I wish I was wrong, at least, this time.