Here, flying is more like swimming. The air thick & sweet & burning, something I have to push my way through. Paddling parallel to the ground, I can say this is my world—I’ve seen it revolve around me. I’ve felt it roll gently against my skin. The world is my little sister back when I wanted to be her center. Back when she was still infatuated with the things I could tell her; convinced of every word, every tongue-burner, every cup of coffee too-sour. 

The world is my moon. Watch; it circles me again, spinning on an axis of its own all the while. Wonder; like my own faltering mess of center? The core? The cob? But

here, fear is contained. Bullets run warm, honeyed, just loud enough to tell the time. Death is still alluring. So is resent. But the fall is slow enough to rethink, & I do. Here, too late is fast enough. 

And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. 

–  1 Corinthians 10:13

Listen once for the music. Again for the words. Wait until the atmosphere settles a little, until you can love a silhouette. Did you know? The easiest way out is to open them. Eyes slivering, half-lidded, full. Eyes moonshot. 

No languages here,

only the feeling of sight—

paint escaping frame. 

– Jenny Oh

Featured Image by Pero Kalimero on Unsplash

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