POETRY
ICARUS RETURNS TO THE SUN
warm hands pressed against the ceiling
our sky, propped up with lustre assumptions
eight months weigh on six days
the cracks appear in the concrete
​
i press in my fingernails, make a moon on your palm
you make a pool on your pillow, and i make a sound
lost somewhere between
a songbird and a traitor on the gallows
​
i can't get the words out so you fill the spaces for me
i suggest the inevitable, you rewrite the beginning
skip over the middle – an empty kingfisher dive all
speed and no grace
​
angels are meant to scare mortals to
death i just thought you were beautiful
perhaps a death in its own right,
leaden wax wings and scorching light
Casper is a writer from Nottingham UK, and a student. You can also find his words in Thread/Fate (postghostpress). If you can't find him, he's probably crocheting or simply vibin'.