This is where I try to remember.  This is where I try to remember what has happened before this, any of this:  where you were, where this all started.  It started at the bottom with water everywhere.  I know the weather everywhere.  I turned off the lights.  I turned off the lights because we are too far from the sun and there was something else.  There was.  This is what has happened.  Forget that.  This is what will happen.  There will be wings that don’t work:  they will pierce through my skin and hang down from my shoulders like a dead plant.  I do not believe that they are made of wax—I do not believe that they will melt.  At the top there is a prison, you say, and I agree:  you are the holder of light, you have tended to the garden.  You think I am an angel.  You think I am not a man:  that I can move amongst the waves and not lose anything.  You think that I can fly.  Tell me the story again.  Tell me the story of where you met me and how you knew how I slept like a child with my knees pulled up to my chest.  Tell me the story of how you knew I stuck an arrow in my mouth and swallowed:  the wood piercing the back of my throat and how I kept the water running to cover up the sound of my coughing.  Tell me what I told you it tasted like.  Tell me about the dead trees whose branches look like west moving smoke.  Tell me that you’re glad I came—to save you from rotting columns and wax candles.  I am named after a void:  a gap in the floor that I create as I move closer to where you are.  I hear that you are having a baby.  I hear that the lines in your face make you look older:  a few coats of silver where black should be.  Remember how I jump.  Remember how I can make myself better—the arrows shoot further than before—they linger in the air for a second before disappearing into the dark, the sharp head dulling to nothing as it vanishes before it strikes your eye.  You think you are rescuing me from all of this:  you have given me a bow to escape here, to pretend that the heat and the sticking of skin to sheets is something that can be plucked out like the strings on a harp or a snake out of the riverbed.  I will believe that I can be saved:  that the rings around my wrist can rotate around me like I am a god and you are a goddess—that there is light here, that there is water to drink that does not come from the river—we will not feel the grit of silt on our teeth.  These wings will not work.  They are not like the limbs of birds.  I will not lift.  I will not drag.  I will not glide the way that you want me to glide:  like a mute swan, like I am ruby-throated.  I can adapt, you say.  It has nothing to do with angels and everything to do with angles:  here are the numbers, here is how you ascend.  Think of silk.  My bones are made of palms:  bend them into a cross.  Comment on my shape—a diamond, a triangle, the top of the umbrella you left in my closet.  Tie a knot around my stomach.  You believe that I am the lightest.  You believe that I am made of silk:  that whatever weight is left is less than the air, that at the end of all of this I can be something more than what I am—I can double in size like you wished it to happen, that nothing needs to be said:  you, standing in front of me after I killed the girl inside the eye.  You behind the eye.  You in front of a mirror, waving, you standing there all of this time as if you were a statue, a marble pillar, as if you knew that we were starting in the middle, as if I was not the last hope but just a hope—an attempt, a try.  You running, trying to catch the wind.  Move with me and I will move—I will move like there is nothing left.  I will move like a myth on the air, like rocks falling from the sky.  I will move like there is nothing worth remembering.