I want to be above myself.

I want to be beyond myself.

I push off from the ground, one skip, two,

Desperation behind the grate of my sneakers scraping against the pavement,

And then it takes and I heave myself into the air, flying.

I am above the clouds, above the swirl and eddies of white condensation forming mountains, forming rivers, mimicking the ground below,

But still the pink stripe of the setting sun is higher,

Still the sun is higher.

Still immolation is beyond my reach,

And flight fails me as I fall back to the earth.