He grips, gravel gritting
beneath his fingertips.
Only one hand halts a
speedy journey
downwards.
The open air mimics
freedom; his feet dangle
unimpeded by the weight of
his body.
Eyes closed, he is
flying, evading the net of
gravity— well, attempting to.
Reveling in the chase, unmindful of
gravity’s bloody victory that
awaits.
His hand grows sweaty on the
earth. He likes that
too. Likes splaying himself flat upon
a soily chest, a heart
light years away making its flesh
warmly alive. Knowing its
minerally perfume, its
muddy makeup, will taint his
clothes.
And so he must choose.
Temporary liberty or
permanent security?
It is impossible to have
both, but that is what he
yearns for.
His shoulders contract in
his heave upwards, and he
collapses like a
decaying tree onto the
ground. The distant fiery
heart warms his body,
settles into his bones and
slows his mind.
Cheek on chalky chest, he
dreams.
He dreams of flying.
