I paint damp patches of the wall in cerulean blue every month and wait for Friday evenings to break the fetter around my legs to see sunset.

Days are longer so, I re-read all her letters. I kissed one of those letters the other day and It smelled like a closet I had in my bedroom.

In one of the letters, she had asked me to use my wings exactly when sun touches the horizon.

Every Friday when the sun kisses the sea, I run towards the edge of a cliff to fly but I cannot. I don’t know how to use my wings anymore. I go back to the wreckage of my heart to confide about my failure…..