Bottom of the pile. Sinking. Slowly. That feeling you get when you are guilty. Iron knots in your stomach. Dragging you down. Metallic and cold. But with you, it's different. When we touch, I ignite. The metal metal molten. Silk sheets in a forgotten chateaux. You make me grow wings. Big. Overbearing at times, but beautiful wings. Strong and nerturing. I feel free. The shackles gnawed away by kisses peppered across my freckles. And for the first time, I am no longer submerged.
It is stunning up here. The way the clouds embrace the night sky. Like a mother tending to her new born child. It is warm. No anger to block out the suns rays. I like the warmth. The way it wraps you in cloth, and holds you to its chest. And when you look act me. As though I mean something. As though I am someone. I realise that I am enough. No matter if they bind you, try to claw out your dreams, it's fine. For the wings, they will guide you. So you too can see the clouds. Feel the warmth. Breath.
But still I weep. For some can never reach past their bedroom window. Their wings corroded stumps. Pulling them back to the bottom. I weep. Because the higher we soar the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly; and they are left behind.