I used to chase the burn,
thinking the fall was freedom.
Every drink, a pair of wings
I knew would never last.
Icarus was never flying,
he was just running from the ground,
like I did, night after night,
trying to outdrink my own reflection.
But somewhere between the crash
and the silence that followed,
I must learn to breathe without the flame.
Now, the sun still rises,
and I don’t have to run toward it.
The warmth no longer burns,
it just stays.
And so do I.
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