Do you ever get that little pain,
between your shoulder blades,
down your back,
sometimes even as far up as your neck.

Just that aching of muscles,
Almost like a growing pain,
Almost like your body has decided out of nowhere,
To do something different.

Do you ever get that little burst of hope,
That no matter how ridiculous it is,
No matter how insanely stupid you feel for thinking it,
you can't help but imagine.

What if my body has finally grown,
Tired of the ground?
You ask yourself,
A small smile stretching across your face.

What if-- despite the oddity of it,
You've decided,
Out of the blue,
To grow wings?

They would rip out slowly,
And it would hurt,
But you couldn't care,
Couldn't find it in yourself.

Because your mundane, ordinary body,
Has finally saw it fit,
To get sick of the ground,
And yearn for the horizon.

You do, fly.
Your large wings stretch out,
on either side as you,
soar through the air.

You're so close to the stars that
you could reach out and touch them.
You do,
you reach out and touch a star.

You are one with the sky,
timeless and ancient and
finally at peace
with everything.

You have become a star itself,
and you're no longer concerned with your lack,
of knowledge,
because you have hundreds of thousands of years before you supernova.

You can learn anything,
see everything,
you will never feel lonely or forgotten,
because everyone will look up.

People will wish upon you,
you hear their voices as little whispers of desire,
and you grant their wishes,
just because you have the power.

Then you're ripped back to reality,
the absurdity of your thoughts makes you embarrassed somehow,
Like it's your own fault for having
An imagination.

Because that pain is just a human's pain,
and you are painfully ordinary.
No matter how badly you want it to be true,
your body doesn't want wings.

You pretend like you don't really want them either.

At least, not that you can acknowledge.