Skated where lilies bent,
pavement murmured in argent hush,
wind unspooled within my ribs—
a hymn of flight, untethered, fierce,
spun in the silk of speed.

Wheels were never meant for girls—
that flight was fleeting, never owned.

They said—stride rewritten, dream revoked.
But air had named me, traced my pulse
in gold-lit veins of motion, feral-free.

Children watched—wide constellations,
irises pooled in astonishment,
mirroring something too bright to tether.
One step from a flag-bound fate,
from slicing dusk on weightless wheels.

Then—lockdown. World wrenched mid-spin,
skates unstrung, silence thick.
Wings collapsed to dust and dusk,
a promise left in winter’s throat.

Yet speed still lingers in my bones,
wind—ghost-thin, whispering back.
One step, and muscle will remember,
rhythm rekindle in marrow and motion.

I dream of dusk-warmed pavement,
of twilight spooling across my wrists,
of exile ending where flight begins—
of weightless light, of love, of grace.

One day, I’ll wake. I’ll step outside,
where echoes gather, where silence hums,
and whisper softly to the wind—
“Teach me how to wear my wings again.”

But dreams have gravity,
and promises are heavy things.

Still—one day, perhaps, I will.