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Only if…

my body could float like a balloon…

I swear

I wouldn’t rush the sky.

I would look down…

at the quiet geometry of roads,

the smallness of worries,

the way people forget

how to look up.

And before I pop

oh, before I disappear

I would feel everything.

Maybe…

it won’t be the air pressure.

Maybe

it’ll be the birds.

Sharp beaks.

Sudden endings.

Like people

who cannot stand

to see you flying higher

than their fears.

And inside me….

helium.

Not just gas

memories.

Laughter.

Fragments.

Unfinished sentences.

And when I burst

they burst too.

What remains of me

might fall…

somewhere unreachable.

A rooftop.

An ocean.

A place where meaning

doesn’t survive.

Or maybe

someone finds me.

And I’m no longer… me.

Just material.

Repurposed.

Framed.

Hung on a wall

like love that once lived,

now remembered

instead of felt.

I don’t want to poison the waters…

I don’t want

my falling

to become

someone else’s ending.

A creature

innocent

mistaking me for survival.

If it lives…

I hope someone notices in time.

Before I become

a silent mistake

inside a living body.

But what if I rise higher?

Higher…

than fear,

than memory,

than gravity itself.

And I get caught

branches.

Thorns.

Reality.

And still…

what a beautiful ending it would be

to fall

on a rose.

To breathe in fragrance

with my last stretch of air…

To rest

finally

on something

that knows how to bloom

and bleed

at the same time.

The wind…

will take me again.

It always does.

No address.

No destination.

Just… movement.

Nowhere.

I feel it now…

this strange lightness.

This hollow…

that doesn’t hurt.

Maybe we are all balloons.

Filled with invisible rebellions.

Floating thoughts.

Quiet defiance.

We rise

not because we are strong…

but because

something inside us

refuses

to stay grounded.

And all we really want is

to reach

somewhere beautiful…

before we pop.