if I r e a c h the end of this forever
it's because I know there will be air

and the bystanders below wonder how I'm still alive –
because we're so damn high –
I can almost see my breath, quaking like a mountainside avalanche,

and I'm tired – what but habit could tell me not to fall – but looking up,
we drink the sang-wine as it falls from the bleeding psuedoheavens
to ledges, and we dangle there from our own turning-crimson forfinger–


that makes us...
that digs the earth's gray knives into our bone marrow;
that wears&tears our foot-souls;

an uphill climb–

our story is

forever: a terrible idea, I said to her