Ever since I was little I remember wishing I could fly. Not like superman could fly. I wanted wings. I wanted to grow them and feel them burst from my shoulder blades.
I wanted to feel my warm blood dripping down my back as the delicate, feathery wings quiver and twitch while they expand. Large brown hawk's wings, like the color of my hair. And a rounded fanned tail that could sweep the air beneath my body as I fling myself into the sky and be above the trees in seconds.
Sometimes they were scaly wings and once I learned what gargoyles were, I envied their resilience. Their patience.
A few days ago I wanted wings of fire and feet curled under me, hanging loose, but engaged. Talons dripping with flaming embers. These wings do not get me much farther than the flame they burst out of, but I needed them and they were there.
Then I woke up again and my wings had fallen asleep. I can still feel them, brown and feathery, tucked sweetly beneath my shoulder blades. They itch and pop beneath the skin, moving the flesh around as they patiently await tonight, when it's finally cool enough again to fly.