Bones & Ladders

I’ve been trying to pin him down with words but he transcends every syllable in the dictionary. He’s been darting left and right across the horizon, hunting the sun like morning may never come. I can hear it laughing at his foolishness as he fastens together a ladder made from old bones, thinking it will be tall enough to reach what he’s after.

I know the truth of what the sun mocks. I see the flaw in every crackling femur, each crumbling mandible. But why would he listen to a fickle thing like me? Capricious is my middle name, mercurial my last.

Perhaps it is my attraction to despondent, imperfect things that keeps me fastened to him like a string around his finger. I am a crow after a diamond ring, coming up with nothing but thistles and creepers.

It has crossed my mind, once or twice at least, that when he ran his fingers over my chest they dug a little deeper than the skin. I can feel them tugging, pulling me along on his Icarus campaign.

Still, I will be that bit of frayed string around his finger reminding him that when his wings start to burn I’ll be waiting with a bucket of water and a first aid kit.