Family and friends.
Flying and failing.
Falling and fire.

The kindle…
I remember that day in front of the fireplace.
The feeling that I felt that day wouldn’t come back again.

What’s falling out there?
What for?
What’s next?

Is there any other spelling that can replace “fire” giving the same feel? The front teeth biting the lower lip? The power, the dance, the glow? The movement that never stops when it’s alive? The enchanting danger calling for intimate proximity but not allowing any touch without severe consequence?

Flame flies up.
So do the dream, the birds, and the fantasy.
My dream has the wings of a phoenix burning up the path that it glides. My eyelids would open up with the ashes when the sun hits the window with a dare of the faint memory of flying… charging the dark night with the glowing power.

Falling and failing are not the same thing as Jack Gilbert insisted.
Falling means that there was once flying. Sometimes, that is enough for one lifetime… just one flight. Flame goes up, fire consumes. When the ashes in the hands, rub on the cheeks drawing the two blocks of straight lines across, glaring the night, remembering the time, the time that I flew close to the moon arching the way back to the earth with the burning feathers.

Fire and falling.
Fire and failing.
Fire and flying… once… in lifetime… my charred face proud in the mirror with the memory of the flame, the memory of the night. The life… flew once.

<October 30th, 2019>

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