This is the chance for you to be wingless, armless – perfectly disproportioned, hanging on the remnant of a string made of wax. There is always a cry before the fall and a soft, angled breeze – a blush of air, yellow and old, breathing like we do at the end, when the world cringes and sinks before surging up and flattening against us. The out-of-breath moment hits us, knocking neonatal knowledge to the ground, barren and soulless. This is the chance for me to sing the feathers together, shine a blue light on your soul and pretend that it is me lifting you – flashlight, and brimstone made of butterfly wings, petals on pool water, in hand, hoarding the emptiness of my own soul. I imagine myself scrapping darkness and blowing it away with gentle lips and there, beneath the pure black corners, your soul emerges like dinosaur bones. I find my quest in the heat of your hair and the green sin of your aura – a beauty that engulfs and spits me out wet and gray and utterly guilty with only less than I have ever deserved.
~Hammeh
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