SLIPPING THE GLOVE

　　I pray to you—do not separate my breath from my body. Protect me from death. Grant me immortality

　　It`s a mix of fear, plane-jumping adrenaline,

　　and soar. Turns out the body is a suit, armor,

　　something we shoulder on the infant Earth.

　　And leaving? It`s the rush of fall, blaze of colors

　　and smell of autumn—change is in the air here.

　　It was simple really. Like slipping the gloveThis tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

　　from your hand, every home-done stitch

　　in the fabric, tear and stain and dirt patch

　　cast aside, forgotten as my spirit rears like young

　　horses and I step through my eyelids, leaving

　　my body behind, but not the self. I wave goodbye to

　　the statue I once called home, an automaton

　　without an owner—no one to pull those strings,

　　because I am only dazzling, wondrous spirit,

　　warm and celestial and gleaming like the prospect

　　of tomorrow. I suppose it was like falling asleep,

　　except I did not fall. I did not close my eyes. I did

　　not drift into the casual realm of the unreal. Just as easy

　　as sleep, but with eyes open like hopeful lands,

　　blazing towards the real and ancient before.

　　Dying—leaving the body—a revelation.