You were always made of sky,
not just wings,
but wind,
and weightlessness.
A whisper of grace
in every step.

I watched you glide
like you belonged to the clouds,
like gravity only brushed
your shoulders
out of courtesy.

Then came the night
you brought the bodkin.

Not to your wrist,
but to your wings.

Feather by feather,
you plucked the sky from your spine.
Not in rage.
Not in tears.
Just silence,
as if,
it was the only choice
left.

You laid them down
on the floor like secrets,
each one slick with sorrow.
And when you stood,
you were lighter,
but no less confined.

You bled sky.
You bled light.

And I could do nothing
not even witness,
paralyzed by the soft horror
of watching someone unbecome.

How do you cradle a being
who no longer believes
they're divine?

How do you mourn loss
in someone still breathing?

Now,
I find feathers in the strangest places-
wedged between pages,
caught in the wind,
lingering on my tongue
when I try to speak your name.

And I wonder
if some part of you
remembers the air,
misses the ache of altitude.

I would have held your wings
if they were too heavy.
I would have helped you fly
or even fall.

But you chose
to fall
apart.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Daedalan, in the year 977 AF.