I paint damp patches of the wall in cerulean blue every month and wait for Friday evenings to break the fetter around my legs to see sunset.
Days are longer so, I re-read all her letters. I kissed one of those letters the other day and It smelled like a closet I had in my bedroom.
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In one of the letters, she had asked me to use my wings exactly when sun touches the horizon.
Every Friday when the sun kisses the sea, I run towards the edge of a cliff to fly but I cannot. I don’t know how to use my wings anymore. I go back to the wreckage of my heart to confide about my failure…..