Two cliffs rise on either side of an ocean, Escherian folds bridging, exposing, swallowing the water below. Between them, I dangle, balance, dance in oblivion; exposed, I fall to the abyss, catch myself (or do you catch me?), and I climb again, wearied and aching. How I miss you when you’re gone, when you’ve packed your tent for the night, and abandoned your seat on the eastern cliff, where you watch and applaud dutifully and meaninglessly, and I wonder if you were ever truly there, if this performance ever mattered, because no one has joined, no one has noticed, no one has asked for more. Do I (am I) keep (still) dancing for you, for them?


2 responses to this post.

  1. This is rich and tasty, and begs to be reread and savored.


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