Price Of Love

We fumbled, tumbled, choreographed
a kiss, creasing fresh white sheets,
and there was a moment, when,
we believed that this could exist
inside a bubble, our breathing
sustained by rare air.

We are like Icarus. We flew
too high, tried to touch the sun
and the wax that held our deceit
has melted. The bonds loosen.
Now we find ourselves tumbling,
unable to gain purchase on the air.

You want to go home, to feel
soft wool under bare soles,
the warm winter flames,
the baubles, great strings of light,
and know the sky could be yours
if you wanted it.