After some slump, a talky poem written over two separate days.
"Go on," he said,
we both stand at a double arms length-
the farthest we could be from each other.
Test the water, feel the breeze of the ravine
flutter past bare feet; stray hair eclipses
my vision, every time the wind picks up.
Go on and jump, he seems to want to say,
His eyes flicker like the surface of the river,
smooth as a mirror, the kind of smooth
we used to doubt was real.
The train bridge was whole when I
wanted to cross, but now its sharp ends stick
out, a gap in the grin- a break in the rhythm,
leaving space and time to leak out,
sinking down to the bottom of the river,
swirling around, mixing with the dirt and the silt.
He holds out his hands, I take them by habit;
warm, still. We watch the waterfall in time
cascade and leave lucid ripples. Nearly a year,
gone. The water fills up, the bridge threatens
to fall. "Come on," You beckon me.
I want to stay still, I need some time to think.
Over the sound of fast falling water,
I turn from you, and leave.
This time I'm careful
not to get my foot stuck
between the wooden beams.
Your voice melts, warped by
the crumbling sounds of lost time,
and the water keeps rising. There's no
turning back now.
Back on the other side, square one,
I've got to start from scratch, with nothing
but the wet hem of a dress to show for it.
With you, I could have drowned.