We’re swaying on a tightrope.

Air rushing me and running

away. Smell of pine whispers

to me. She’s no good. She

doesn’t trust herself. It hurts

her. Still, there is air, and it

smells of pine. It stretches on

until it kisses the bone moon.

What happens now, I wonder,

where do we go when we run

out of rope? And what

happens if we don’t?

“photo of gray rope” by Aditya Wardhana on Unsplash

I feel tingles by my shoulders

and my fingernails are quietly

ablaze. I’m not happy. I’m happy.

I’m not supposed to be happy. I

need to meditate. I have the

softest feeling that this won’t be

happy. The light fades to

velveteen cloaks in stars. The

tightrope disappears. In coursing time,

it comes back to me. I bury my

face in her hair. There are whispers

low down. The smell of pine returns,

it radiates. It’s inconvenient. But am

I alone? I can hold the weight of your

worlds if it’s what you need. I won’t

tell you no, I won’t ask for a return

on investment, I will simply hold

because it’s no use that I can

hold the weight of your worlds.

Unless the tightrope breaks today.

“grayscale photo of rope” by Greg Willson on Unsplash

Thank you for reading this poem, and be sure to let me know what you think.

If you liked it, you’ll also like these selected poems from my recent work:

…BRD…

I write poetry, prose, and personal pieces. All images are mine unless indicated otherwise. Feel free to leave feedback on my work anytime; I hope you enjoy.

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