WINGS WERE MEANT FOR ANGELS

I used to fly every day. The skies were mine, open, transparent, comforting.

If only I could touch the clouds again.

He always said

that he would catch me if I were to fall

but now my feet are on the ground.

My wings lie bleeding on a crimson canvas

I don't remember the first time he lifted me up to the sun

Only the warmth

and the way he laughed

and the way he promised that he would always be right here

promised that he would be

right here

My wings lie bleeding in a stagnant ocean

of sheets and tubes and half-hearted words of well-being

I don't remember those afternoons

the memories of skies, crinkled eyes and cherry pies

have faded with the sounds of rushing wind

of what has been - but no more.

I used to fly every day.

Now... wings lie broken and breathless on a bed of death.

But I'm right here.

I'll always be. Like you promised. Like I promised. Like we promised.

And we'll fly again.

Won't we?

I don't understand why the beating of wings and the beating of hearts mean so much less than the twitch of a feather.

I'm right here.

A finger rises - and in that moment is an eternity of sunlight and quiet nights and the embrace of bleeding wings -

Even as the sounds of rushing wind

fade with the colour in his eyes

I know wings were meant for angels

And that's where he'll be

In clear blue skies

free