If I Can Fly Like A Bird Poem by Samarth Varshney

if I can also fly like a bird—
not just soar,
but vanish
into the hush between stars and telephone wires,
where longing folds into the shape of a wing.

I'd slip past rooftops soaked in childhood rain,
graze the echo of your name
etched into my old window fog,
and whisper back the words I never learned to say
except in dreams.

clouds wouldn't just be clouds—
they'd be letters I write in vapor,
half-poems carried by wind
to places I'll never land,
but always orbit.

no passport.
no weight.
no timeline bleeding into another 9 a.m.—
just that wild hush
where nobody owns the sky,
and I'm not afraid of coming undone.

I wouldn't just escape.
I'd become
every undone promise,
every almost-love,
every sunset that got stuck
in someone else's rearview.

and when I'm tired of forever,
I'd land barefoot on your balcony—
not to say I've changed,
but to ask
why you stopped looking up.