The Drop

It ain't the gusts of wind whipping my face
that bother me.

It ain't the breakneck speed of the fall,
no chute to slow it down,
that occupy my mind.

Nor it is the knowledge there'll be a touchdown,
I am worried about.
It's the sheer cliff I fell from
(or I had been pushed from; or I stepped away from, myself)
I am longing for.

The sense of loss is not tamable,
and can't be fathomed.
The cuts,
deep,
to the very heart of me,
as only who shagged (shared with?) me for year upon year could,
and by -a deaf and blind- god would,
wound me.

The scars, older,
overlooked back then,
keep festering now:
scars?
Bleeding, infected wounds.

Doubts: a long, dark tunnel,
and no assurance of light shining at the end,
uncertainty that keeps tugging at me.

Yanks,
pulls,
pushes
and punches
keep me on my, very own, toes.

And it is I which looked for them:
new, unseen skies to test myself under.

Laying the blame worries me not.
What keeps me awake
is finding an answer,
to explain the sheer drop.


L.