literature

The last flight

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Literature Text

I was flying high, my sky blue wings free from bruises or abrasions for the first time in many years. A laugh escaped my lips as I turned to face the man beside me. His black wings had a red lightening bolt etched down the center of each. And there, on his left wing, dead center was a tiny blue feather. The correct feather, blood red, sat in the middle of my own deep blue wing. We had swapped that day he stole his wings back with a kiss. There was a rumbling off to my left, forewarning, a bad omen. I swooped away, he followed. We played for a while, and then the storm was upon me. Lightening and thunder crashing everywhere, I reached for him. He was gone, as if he had never been. There was no trace, no sign. It was as if I had dreamed that return, that relapse. The spell was once again firmly in place. He was caged, his wings bound tightly, firmly to her. His words stolen from the very tips of his fingers. I rolled in mid-air and fell to earth, my arms and wings spread out. I did nothing to brace for the impact, and as my back slammed into the earth, body arching towards the heavens, my breath left my lungs. I feared this would be the last time I ever flew. His promises are nothing but memories now. The ring I wear on my right hand is no longer an unspoken vow, but rather, a reminder of what once was.
I haven't been able to write about what happened, except for a few brief poems. This... pretty much sums it up.
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