Icarus survived that long, long fall.
He pulled himself out of the cold, salty ocean, cursing and spitting,
All while staring at the golden sky.
He always tried to find that feeling again,
Of falling so fast that no one could catch him,
Of stinging tears and breaking bones and open skies,
Of the warming heat from the morning sun,
By standing in front of his mirror every morning with a hot glue gun
And his dirty, shedding wings, not able to see the puckered, pink skin on his back,
Diligently reattaching his freedom.
By flinging himself off cliffs, hoping the wind would steal his breath
And replace it all with fear and adrenaline.
By jumping off bridges in the face of the rising sun,
Praying that the heat would heal his scars,
But he just couldn’t find the same weightless, deathless joy in the sun,
From the first time he plummeted to sea like a meteor falling from the heavens.
So Icarus went to dark alleyways and nightclubs with broken signs,
Seeking out the corners of the world where the sun didn’t shine,
Looking for a drug, a drink, a kiss,
That would give him that high again.
But nothing ever worked.
So day after day, Icarus gazed longingly at the cloudless sky and wondered,
Was I supposed to die?