A child in yellow,
hair burning like a streak of flame,
stands beneath a sky torn open—
a chaos of color,
shifting,
swallowing,
indifferent.

The balloon is too large,
too red,
a swollen heart on fire
straining upward,
flames licking at the storm.

The string trembles, thin as breath—
a vein stretched between her hand and nothing.
She holds not rubber encasing her breath,
but the fragile purity of a whispered
prayer on a string.

A farewell for someone gone,
a hope too fragile to release.
She hesitates.
She knows if she lets go,
it rises beyond her reach.

And even if she holds on,
chaos will tear it away.

—Jon.E.B. | Fleeting