they see him running on sunbeams in the early morning. stars are tied to his toes and they rattle behind him like chains, but he has never felt so liberated. there was a time when atoms were exploding in his lungs and he could not breathe, colors would fly behind his eyes and he could not see. his skin was numb from too many suns burning beneath the surface. he used to curse the morning; now he holds it in his hands and sprinkles it down upon us.

he still sees himself as human, is that a surprise? though he is stardust and the remains of energy, he is flesh and blood first. he came from the womb, not from the sky. he knew his hands before he knew his wings; he knew his words before he knew his magic. he dances with the snow on winter nights only to melt it away in the day. he drinks golden wine, it’s gods ichor he sips. he twirls his curls around his fingers and whistles tunes only the bluebirds understand. he runs barefoot through forests and though his feet may bleed, he brings the sunlight with him and that’s all he needs. he trips on skies and sips waterfalls, throws his wishes into wells. he can make miracles happen. what being in the world would want to make such magic angry?

a thousand suns have tried before, to hold him in their burning grasp. there is no force known to us that can contain him where they lack.