Pull me out when my floating seems amusing;
I will patiently graze the ceiling when you tire.
Take me outside and wonder why I cower–
wonder why I am easily afraid to burst,
when I have never been introduced to flight.
How the air traps me
to the corner, even without a string attached;
I envision hands that take me away to fairs and skies,
before the inevitable deflation of time.
I wait.
Those moments of floating midair keep me
settled in the night;
the waving arms of anger reflect off of my thin skin
and I mirror them inside;
there is no place high or low enough to ever be seen.
Chances are I’ll stay until I’m condensed into one warped sphere of your breath
(how ecstatic you once were to blow me up)
and I wait alongside the dust of your floors–
swept unknowingly under the radiator by the wind of your passing feet.

 

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