One Last Perfect Flight

Lyrics

The edges first. Like old film burning from the corners in. A scent of ozone and silver. The floor of the infinite hotel is losing its pattern.

And then I know. The hum is my own name being called from another room, a room made of morning. I look at my hands to check. Five fingers, but they shimmer, they are woven from the light that is unmaking them. I try to count them twice and the second time they are a cascade of silver dust falling through the floor that is no longer a floor. The walls are mirrors showing only the static of a signal lost.

And instead of holding on, instead of rubbing my palms to make it stay, I let the breath go. Thank you. I said it to the room, to the dream, to the architect of the dissolving labyrinth. And everything... stopped. The hum paused on its highest note. The silver dust froze in mid-air.

The color of the carpet deepened to a red I have no name for. The static in the mirrors resolved into a single, perfect image of a paused sky. In the corner, my grandmother from that other Tuesday was still holding out the sheet music, a statue of kindness. The ten-years-younger me stood by a door, not walking through it, just watching me with an expression of peace. They are all keepsakes in a gallery about to be shuttered.

And instead of trying to hold on, instead of shouting to make it stay, I let the gratitude go. Thank you. I said it to the fading ghosts, to the architect of this perfect, collapsing moment. And the world held its breath. The silver dust hung in the air like constellations.

And in that silence, I pushed off from the ground that wasn't there. One last flight. Not a frantic escape but a slow glide through the archive. I soared through the frozen corridors, past doors that opened onto every dream I'd ever cataloged. The morning light wasn't a thief, it was the exit—a warm, golden river flowing where the hallway used to be. I flew above it, watching my own reflection ripple on its surface.

The river rises. The constellations of dust begin to move again, spiraling into a single point of white. The wings I never knew I had dissolve. My grandmother waves, a slow, crystalline motion. The feeling of falling. The feeling of landing. The ceiling is white. The light is real. The dream is a receipt in my pocket that has faded to blankness, but I can still feel its shape. Thank you.