Losing Grip
Standing on the edge of cliffs,
Staring into orange sunsets.
It's always the end of the
Fuses, it's always growing short.
When everyone speaks, they
Speak in gaseous tongues.

As I learn, I grow, and
I wonder when I outgrow
My bed. I'm looking onward.
The orange finally fades into
Dusk and I can see the moon.
I look down and toss a heart.