Fallen Angel

Some days I wake up in a daze.

A view from a window, which is still misty with cold breath. I was watched all night? Is that a form I steal? Or was it the air conditioner? I prefer the former. More mystery, more intrigue.

Today is one of those days, the one when I float on air two inches above the ground. The one that holds me in suspended animation. I walk more slowly, almost gliding. I hear less, as if catching whispers from a distance. Voices seem heavier, as if spoken through a static delusion. My frame of vision is blurry on the edges, as if my producer added noise to the bitmap in adobe. I am there. It is me, walking there. But I watch me from an arms length behind my shadow that trails my walk.

A bride walking to her aisle, I hold onto her trailing veil. Only this is no wedding, there is no veil, there is no aisle, there is no man.

He shows, I watch myself, detached from my own self. I fall and jerk back into my body. I feel pain and I cry.

I cried for all those times I should’ve but didn’t.

I cried because I was no longer viewing from where he stood. But watching through the globes of my own iris.

I cried because I had plunged and was now walking, not floating in space.

I cried because I had fallen.