My wings are not very different from yours.
I grasp the air from the world I was born into.
I grew and filled my tiny space,
I took its shape as it pressed into me.
As it left its marks I began to think it became me.
I cared for my fragile universe,
keeping it safe and intact for it was all I knew.
And you flew right by me,
staring at me into my very eyes.
You sailed through the air like a master of flight.
Though with a youthful clumsiness you crashed into me,
catching us both by surprise.
I stared back at you, amazed, with joy.
Our hearts spoke more words than our mouths.
My eyes wrote you books,
I still read from your pages.
Yet I could not speak, or fly with you
and so you left
returning me to the world I never left.
My wings pushed against the walls,
my head banging at the door,
every door.
Never did I quit,
never did I believe that I could not,
and I did.
I lay on the ground surprised.
Fresh sunlight hit my unfolding wings.
I walked with a limp but I began to fly
and soar,
higher,
farther.
All so I could find you again,
fly with you
stare into you
tumble with you.
But you were gone and I was alone.
From my great height I could see the flecks of my shattered cage.
There I was.
In the air.
