I wanted to see what the sky tasted like.
I wanted to feel the wind beg me to come back.

The higher you go, the thinner the air.
The harder it is to breathe, to think, to hold.

Each step higher tasted like proof.
Like worth.
Like finally.
So I climbed.
And climbed.
And climbed.
No rope. No rest. No plan for descent.

You called it freedom,
but you forgot that wings melt.
That joy can blister.
That light can burn as much as it warms.

I flew.
Didn’t even look down.
Didn’t ask how far it was.
Didn’t ask if I could land.

The sky doesn’t care how long it took you to get there.
It only asks:
What are you willing to lose to stay?

Everything.
If I’m being honest.
I would’ve given everything.

You did.

But it was beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes you forget anything could hurt.
The kind of beautiful that begs for surrender.

And still—
beauty does not catch you when you fall.
It only makes the descent harder to explain.

I didn’t think I’d fall.
Not like this.
Not fast.
Not all at once.

No one does.
That’s the myth.
That you’ll feel the moment the joy ends.
But it never warns you.
It just lets go.

I thought the sun would hold me.
I thought it would recognize me.
I thought if I burned bright enough,
it would love me back.

The sun does not hold.
The sun only consumes.
And what you mistook for warmth
was always fire.

Then what was the point?
Of all that light?
All that flight?
All that becoming?

That was the point.
To become.
Even if it broke you.
Even if it burned.
Even if you couldn’t stay.

But now there is no answer.
No wind.
No sun.
No sky.
Just the sound of your own breath
and the echo of your own questions
ringing in your ears like aftershocks.

You hit the ground and it doesn’t crack—
you do.

It’s not loud.
It’s not cinematic.
Just still.

The air tastes different now.
The kind of different you can’t unknow.

And the wings?
They were never built for landing.
Only for longing.
Only for flight.
Only for falling.