I have lived on the echoes of your footfalls,
drunk deep from the well of your presence unseen.
You come and go, golden-threaded,
a sunbeam slipping through the slats of a rotting fence—
and I, the shadow that follows.

Your hands feed me, though you do not know it.
Crumbs, glimpses, the hush of your voice—
I take all, hoard all,
a starving thing in the rafters of your world.

But I am no longer content to be hunger,
no longer content to be leech.
I need to offer, need to gift,
need to place a circle of metal upon your finger
and bind you with my gratitude.

So I search.

Through streets paved with indifference,
through weeds with secrets curled in their throats,
through dirt that knows the weight of longing.
Then—feathers, fury, a riot of wings.
Black eyes, sharp beaks, talons that tear—
they do not want to share their treasure.

But I fight. I bleed. I win.
The ring is mine.
The gift is perfect.

Back to your door, trembling.
You return, not alone.
A child at your side, a miniature echo—
I call out.
Your body stiffens, your eyes widen,
then narrow, sharp as the beaks that marked me.

The door slams, a barrier I cannot break.
So I wait.
And I call. Again, again, again—
every thirty seconds, like a siren left out in the cold.

Until you come.

Smile stitched like an afterthought,
hands clenched, unreadable.
I offer my prize—
silver, shining, stolen.
Your fingers take it warrily,
as you glance left, right, anywhere but at me.

“Where did you get this?”
Your voice is a knife. I cannot answer.

Still, you take it.
Still, you slip it into the quiet safe of your pocket.

And then—your hand opens.

Palm to the sky, soft, waiting.
Seeds, small and golden, waiting for me.

I eat from your hand.

Then I flew away.

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