Some things are not built to last.
A fly in the corner.
Trapped, on white porcelain,
under the weight of water.
Dead?
Did it panic?
I ponder as the first drops glisten.
Beading on my skin,
pool beneath me.
Born from me,
like a mountain river that feeds a sea.
Would I have even noticed?
On another day,
given any thought at all.
To my companion,
to the other?
Or would I have washed it away?
Like a hardened scab.
As I’ve done,
when the lake around me,
dries arid black.
Did it regret?
When it lay there,
unable to unmake,
those last few moments?
I pause.
Rinse away the blood.
Today was just practice.
Today my wings are light enough,
even if yours keep you trapped here.
For now.