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