Out of reach—from boney fingers, sockets wormy, deathbreath seeping through coffee-teeth; from zombies who want to smother dreams. I’m thankful you won’t allow them, protect me instead. I grasp at string, hold on—knuckles ashen, fingers red—leave everything for a ride with you. You desire to go higher, we soar over peaks and hollows, across the deep.
It doesn’t last.
You admit your balloons never held promises, that you never trusted me not to pop them; red, yellow, blue like your eyes. No longer am I weightless to your helium love. You tug at the ribbon around my fingers.
