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.
P.S.
I never got to say goodbye—to skating or to my head coach. I didn’t know he had cancer until he was gone. After lockdown, academics took over, and skating became a distant memory, no matter how much I had achieved. But I still imagine myself returning once I go to college this year. I want to skate until I’m grey and old… or am I just making a promise I’ll never keep?
And if I ask the wind, I hope it will answer—
"You never lost them at all."