I saw a Fish fly

I love a good fish fry. Beer battered, crisp, kindly seasoned and generously couched between greens. I really love it. I also like slender fish fingers. And a good grill washed off with a better drink. But I think I like fish that fly the best. Don't you know what they are? They are once in a lifetime moments of utter disbelief turning into amazement. They are golden wings that swim in transparent plastic water bags cheaply tied to a rope between bamboos. They appear to fly across the blue moods of sky patches and white fluffy clouds. 

I saw a fish fly. In a dimension of five plastic centimeters it fell in love with another in the next plastic bag. Together, they flew apart in joy and came to a concurrence of utter submission to fate. So close to togetherness, yet births apart. 

They were uprooted so they could fly. 

I was reminded of my last life. Some years back. Anything intoxicating and blurred appeared newer and clearer than norms. I was a fish out of water. I was decked to be sold off to the highest, and most caring bidder. But he clipped my wings. So one day, I grew it secretly back, and took off on my flight. People said it didn't suit me, flying. Fish are supposed to swim you see. Be in water.

I grew wings instead. And took to the sky. With words.