Clear

The sky looks fake today

and something strange

hangs above the trees like

the words y'spoke to me.

Dazed like haze floating in and out

of my lungs: A struggle.

Following rooftops over buildings over

any real trees you might find in a

godforsaken desert city.

"Again: a goal."

Feel like I could float right through it and watch as

all the miniscule little schoolkids run home,

bogged down by the heavy load the air keeps

pressing down on their tiny little heads.

But I wouldn't last long and would

fall just like Icarus: Get burnt up hard while

falling through the sky.

And if you promise to recognize my melted skin

and face, then I promise whatever I need to

just to give my self a place to

come back to.

'Cause I'll be back once I'm done

flying through the sickly open fake skies,

waiting for the shirt on my back to burn up

like a message from the heavens,

like, "Maybe, just for now, I'll put you down."