The Chase

The Chase

Come away and fly with me, you said,
All it takes is a pinprick;
the needle’s sharp,
the liquid sweet.

Take a breath, you said,
It’s only a mosquito bite.
There, there.
Flap your wings and don’t look down,
not for now;
focus on the mountaintop.

Fly, up, up, up, you said,
your breath carrying
the mawkish smell of stale ale.

You can look down now, you said,
You can’t fall;
you’re too high,
you lied,
your lips glistening neon
over,
around,
within
your saccharine smile.

Always aim for the mountaintop,
and then reach for the stars,
you said,
Chase the sun;
your wings aren’t made of wax.
Chase the sun.

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