icarus breathes in
and he's afraid to move on.

the walls of (con)crete surround him; they have all his life
but he's carved out a place of his own, now,
and he looks forward to taking his small steps
small independent steps like
staying out until sunrise
and smoking cigarettes in his room while
scribbling his stupid stories

(but he knows the sandcastle walls he's built around himself
are teetering with the ebb and flow;
he wishes that he could collect his friends and put them in his own little world
where they don't have to leave him and move on, too.
to make barbie and ken dolls from his loved ones
where they don't exist outside the hangouts and parties
and they don't have faces until he looks at them.
he wants to wrap his life in plastic and submerge it in molasses
so he can keep up with the movement.
but time fires his life like clay, exposing cracks and pores he neglects)

icarus hiccups
(the wax drips on his back and wings turn to wicker)
but he refuses to pay mind to the burning heat
or the climbing speed of his descent

icarus breathes out
and he won't let go of his wings
but he knows the sea will rise to meet him;
he won't blame daedalus with his dying breath