There's only one.
I'll be honest,
that's all its ever been about.
When the world threw up
spit me into a sea of grey fuzzy smiles
and ripped off wings
she was there.
Everything was still smoldering.
Was it my fault or the manufacturer's?
Who knows.
Who cares.
She watches me quietly as I rebuild.
Passing the occassional odd joke
or plastic smile.
I wonder if she knows...
While some call me Apollo,
others only Icarus. I ponder the irony.
Have I engineered my fate
on Beloved wings of wax?
