It was I who flew too close to the sun.
I did not smell the burning.
I was too busy yearning
for things that would never come,
mistaking distance for destiny,
and hope for something I could touch.
As my wings dripped mercilessly,
I maintained my careless path,
watching every feather fall behind me
and calling it a sacrifice
for the life I swore was waiting ahead.
I should have turned.
I should have listened
when the sky began to warn me.
But wanting you was louder
than every warning I had.
Only as I began to fall
did I recall the truth,
the sun was never mine to hold,
and some things burn brightest
only because they were never meant
to be held.
So down I came,
featherless and foolish,
clutching the ashes of a future
that had never belonged to me.
And somewhere between heaven and earth,
I finally understood:
I was not destroyed
because I loved too deeply.
I was destroyed
because I kept mistaking
the warmth of your light
for a place I could call home.