I've never been to Venezuela, the Sagittarius serpentarius and Branta canadensis' story.

Dear Bird of Prey,

Try not to forget me too fast, try to remember from time to time the bird of W4th who left a little piece of her heart on your island, Peter Pan. 

Remember the birds singing in the morning, the spaceship near NYU, our migration to Japan sitting on the Cooper Union's steps, the night at Columbia, walking around the walls, lying on the steps until their marked our legs and wings, Central Park and the camouflage blanket, this weirdo hiding next to us, remember the New York Philharmonic Orchestra's fireworks in the park, and the race under the rain to catch a sight of the 4th of July's lights, the moments we stopped the time for a few seconds behind the japanese movies, or on several floors flying up or down Marita's staircase, the Niagara falls at W4th when I saw the city for the very last time, the cockroach running yesterday in the street, the raccoon in Forest Hills and you perched on a tree branch in Central Park after a never ending meditation, the second you opened your eyes exactly when I was about to picture you, the ice cube on your back, the frozen T-shirts, the shampoo in your eye, the huge sangria, and the night dancing in this bar with a lil' wood thing on the sidewalk to roost , the moment I finally broke this strange wood and steel object I was poised on around White and Church streets, the polaroid picture, me trying your shorts, the three orange and yellow seats aligned on the subway train, the blind man we walked to his hotel near Times Square, un helado, a gelato, a tu lado, Alex and the cane candy, the Colossus of Marroussi, the weird sake in Chinatown, the songs Jared played while we were falling asleep, you with your pirate shirt, my black necklace squeezed between you and me on 30th Prince street, the bench on wich we had coffee and muffins in Soho, me about to explode each time a group of girly geese passed by, each time we caught an entire sentence of a person walking by, you trying to put a red ribbon around my feathers, all the mosquito bites, the vampire bites, when I take off your glasses, when I found your belly button, your back burning after the Tiger Balm, how I like to fall into the blue of your eyes, how you were drawing me with the tip of your claw as I was falling asleep, my crazy martian voice the next day, the sound of your alarm clock, how surprised I was the first time you said you loved me, how mute we were the last morning, me behind your wall as you were playing Yann Tiersen on your accordeon, Le Jour d'Avant,  remember the Kurt Vonnegut kiss and the first one after days of survival, the glasses of water, aquaholic, Quaker oatmeal, the curled feather on your chin, ciboulette, Marita Meredith, when we hid from my bro in the back room, danced on Ray Charles, went through a small passage in Forest Hills, stopped in a video game store to cheer up, flew a last time to the 71st avenue subway station singing the Beatles, ce sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble. If I didn't lose you between the Californian waves, where did I?

Branta Canadensis.

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