I am floating. Weightless. A shimmering light. The particles of myself exploring, venturing apart, but never so far as to get lost. I am carried by the breeze at rest and playfully elusive, slipping between the branches of the trees, the fingers of those with large hearts.
I used to land in places that seemed safe when one of the large hearts caught something in mine.
I would make sure their hands were held together securely, get all of my pieces together, then form into a shape that could be held, akin to a precious metal. I would drop into their patient hands and I would linger. They would admire me, show me off. They always stopped trying to inspect me, because they could feel my weight in their hands; they knew I was still there. For as long as I possibly could, I waited. For the feeling of unease to dissipate. Peacefully at first, then with growing restlessness, my metaphysical legs tapping. Until I could no longer stand it.
I love the idea of this “safety”, but I do not enjoy this form anymore. It feels unnatural. It feels disingenuous.
I would let gravity take me in liquid form between their fingers. Falling, falling. Ever so gently. No longer contained. Free. Repeating my cycle. I do not hit the ground anymore. I hit once, and it was enough to learn it’s better to not lose myself into something that is not me. Now, I fall until the ground is close and try to remember who I am.
I no longer try to land. I resume my floating. Knowing there is only one place I have ever wanted to stay. One set of hands I can stay weightless in. One set of hands that can hold me in my weightless, true form. I wait. I wait for those hands. I wait until I see you again.