tempered by dreams,
I arch against your back,
hugging you 
like folded wings;
I  have wandered 
mundane labyrinths
and,  escaping 
from the commonplace,
remind you  
what drove Icarus 
to risk winged flight.

Touching you,
I touch my sun.
The need to see you fly
is always greater
than my fear of falling.
I breath Bernoulli
and dream you.

Listen to me, 
not gravity.

Joy Yourcenar

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