Fulfill

Would he be disappointed if you simply stared?

You look at him and wonder, what would Icarus think of these wings? Would he be jealous that someone else is underneath the warmth of the sun?

A hand brushes against yours, and you know it’s a gesture of goodbye. All his touches are. Full of longing, always fleeting. They take up the same breadth as a wing stroke, and you can see the smile curl on his lips like a sickle curls for the harvest. He’s only fulfilling his purpose, carrying out what he’s been destined to do time and time again, from as many vantage points and perspectives as the camera will allow.

For a brief moment you want to print out every photo of his face, every image of him in the sky, soaring above everything he’s ever known. You don’t have a name for the feeling in your chest; that swell of pride followed by the smallest twinge of pain, the faintest hope that his wings will melt and he will fall.

If he did, you wouldn’t catch him.

That’s not the purpose you were meant to fulfill.