we swing up
over the stratosphere,
our arms outstretched--

screaming with joy,
laughing in fear,

but hoping that if we
keep lower to the sea,

(because clouds are also
made of water)

we may land
when our arms fail us,

we may fall
back into the surf,

we may stare at the sun,
our periphery blinded,

and pause,
with dreams soaked from our fingers
but we may live, still

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