I crop the lungs from my ribcage,
Tearing through the fragile shell of muscle and bone;
A tissue paper tomb.
They lay on the ground,
Spread before me in breathless anticipation.
I slit them open, so they're no longer valises of air,
But instead
Lay flat,
Like cloth waiting to become part of a greater whole.
I compose a sturdy pair of wings
From my pair of feeble lungs,
And like Icarus before me I'm ready to dive into the air,
The heat of the sun on my back,
The deadly thrill of salt spray on my tongue.
My feet are
Weightless
As I run towards the edge,
The toes of my scuffed shoes barely touching the ground,
And as I hit open air my wings capture the wind,
Lifting me higher into the sky.
The view would leave me breathless
If I had any breath left to lose.
With a gasping throat I dip towards the turmoiling sea of energy:
Trying to taste your life in the thrall,
Trying to find your light amidst the spray.
But your sourceless heat is scorching my lungs,
Despite the disconnect
I'm choking,
Plummeting,
Charred membrane flapping in tatters,
Streamers of flesh
Turning my death from tragedy to ceremony.
Crashing at your feet,
Broken and spent but thrilled all the same.
You stare at me,
A sick combination of shock and consternation,
Kneeling beside my dilapidated form,
As with a heaving chest I try to breathe in
Some of the life you bleed
Even though my lungs lie in ruin
Around me.
k.f.
