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I hang by long fingers, splotchy red and white, straining on the cool rock face.


Beads of sweat, hot but cool, blossom on my face,



                                              like tears.

I do not cry out when the rock scratches into my skin as my fingers skim over the jagged cliff.

One hand falls.

It doesn’t rise.

It cannot rise.

I cannot rise.

The remaining four fingers strain, quivering like leaves of aspen trees in soft, billowing winds.

I look down into the depths, black, tinted red at the sharply shadowed edges. The sun sets. In truth, the world is at its most beautiful now.

I close my eyes.

My hand slips.

I am falling. I uncover my eyes, the colors of twilight swirling around me, velvet, rose, and soft gold.


Then I open my wings,

                               and fly.


For when we find ourselves slipping from the last thing we hold,

       we will always have our


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