There is an emptiness.
A space.
Not a metaphorical one,
a physical hole between my shoulders.
A hole the wings of a passing bird long to stay.
Perhaps,
in another life
I could have filled this hole.
Beautiful feathers could consume the space
that was concealed by a blanket of skin.
In another life,
I would not stand at the edge of a cliff
staring down,
wishing I could soar over
the cracks in the earth.
I would instead fall back off the ledge,
trusting my wings to soften my landing.
And they would.
The wind would nip at my face
and she would cradle my wings.
I would have no need
to watch the stars from the ground.
Instead I could swim among them,
my feet no longer anchored
to the earth.
I will spread my wings
into the cold night,
allowing the moonlight
to shine through them
and casting a soft halo around me.
In the daylight
I soar over any obstacle that stands in my way.
I fly up,
and up,
until I can no longer see the earth below me.
I will let myself
drift up
until I can reach out
and touch
the sun.
And as I embrace
the soft
and gentle
warmth
of the sun.
I am reminded of a tale as old as time.
The story of the boy with wings.
Who,
longing for its glory,
embraced the sun.
And the sun?
he held the boy.
cradled his wings
until there was nothing left
but ashes.
Therefore, I
will hold my sun.
I will shelter him in my wings
until there is nothing left of me
but ash.
And the ash will eventually
return to the earth.
Leaving me
flightless
once again.
by Jay S.