One two three, one two three.

I still believe. I still believe
in grass, in the magics of cold medicine, in breath that lingers. I believe
in broken camera eyes and I believe
it's taken months for me to figure out
that there isn't anything to figure out.
Not anymore at least.
Catching bloody moths and butterflies.

And we can fly if we open our heads wide enough. If we open our heads wide awake
To catch every saving grace and written word.

There are thousands of men
crawling up your throat, flitting through your lungs
feeling the gaps in your rib-cage and getting
shocked
blistered
burned
with molten wires, melting spines,
echoing a heartbeat,
Coathanger wings welded to the bone.
Beat a pulse through your veins.
And you know what?
I'm not going to look out the window anymore.
I'm going to jump.

Flying = falling
Falling = flying