So soft and delicate, I hold this fragile thing in my hands. Praying I don’t grip too tightly, hoping my anxious, trembling touch doesn’t drop it.
I see every floating tendril, moving gently in the breeze, tickling my palm, and my eyes alight with happiness. It brings me such joy, this beautiful representation of flight.
I wish I could hold it close, put it in my pocket, keep it safe with me forever, but I know that would destroy it’s shape, tear apart it’s very form and it’s beauty, and that I cannot do.
So, as much as it will hurt me…
When the time comes…
I will let it go.
Brea's Air 