The saddest thing, a feather not in love with the sky.

The saddest thing, a feather not in love with the sky.  We dig our toes into the sand, say Hallelujah and run into the waves, chasing the dreams someone else once had for us, in another life. We were merely orbs of dust in the camera lens, then. We were mistaken for angels.  But now the sun is setting, a clean peach. A bird is a bird is a bird, but tell me, what are we? Too afraid to be wholly in love with the root of the root, dirt-caked and lodged in your throat. I pull it out, easily. I say Don’t leave, but then I am gone, and it is just you now. White flags opening big big big in the dusk.

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