wings; how they toy with thin filaments of broken hearts. oh, we do convince ourselves that what we never caught(with bruised hands) we somehow did let go.
wings; how light they are in our escape, but how anvil-like are their statues of absence. like lustrous bones(they are the ribcage of a subatomic quark, cannot be broken even in vicissitudes of totality’s degree.)
will be left an unfulfilled eclipse, clouded over. I think all the wonderful things happen when I only can see the blurred arteries of my eyelids. think I am afraid not of dying, but of not living enough(could never recognize myself in a crowd of millions, all who had fallen in love with some way of the world.)
shall stare at the sky until it turns a stranger; incurvate hearts throw us to a fetal self-containment and invert our reflections, stealthily. we turn cold with time, now, now, now.