On occasion I hope to run my hands through the clouds
to feel how Icarus must have felt
rushing so fervently forward
towards something that was so horribly beautiful it would destroy him
I wonder if I too would construct myself a pair of wings
out of sunrises and loud homes and aspirations
only so that I may cast it all aside as I fall
to be swallowed by the insidious lies I love so much

On occasion I hope to devour the sun
to swallow it whole
feel it burn through my chest and stomach and
pray it matches the heat more than certain
kinds of liquor do on certain kinds of nights.
A communion of sickly sweet hubris
swallow and feel it sting all the way down,
my own flesh more divine than any Faith
I have ever learned