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,
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,
For when we find ourselves slipping from the last thing we hold,
we will always have our