Fly

The sky bruises as easily as I do-
darkening hues that give way
to bright yellow and white that
give way to black again.

I always had my eye on horizons,
sky-bound constellations
and rebel cumulonimbus.
I rise and set, and rise again;
I boil, release, and then, emptied,
find stillness.  

The sky is kin; this skin is constricting.
I'd rather be breath than be breathing.