Count the flowers. Oleander. Lavender. Orchid. Devotion. Primrose and zinnia.

And the flowers that were not, that your mother crushed between her palms: turmeric and fennel. The skyline of the city that you loved, and the roads of the city that you could not love enough.

Twist the air into fire. Twist the night into day. You are still in the same place, swinging your legs back and forth on the fifth floor balcony. If you fall, you will not fly. But the urge is there.