In the heat of a July day in May,
I empty my lungs as we slip out
Over dusty train tracks in the sky.
Fractured wooden planks posing as handrails
Seem to float up accidentally from the river below,
Ebbing and bobbing like nomadic mobile mazes
Coolly ducking our grazes
Walking and talking about heights and hair,
Islands and pride and people with stories of their own.
On a graffitied concrete slab testing my phobia
Our legs dangle over the edge now, heads rest on the hard surface,
All of it softened by this foreign fluttering inside me.
Habit begs me to be afraid, but I left my breath back on those tracks
And there’s a comfort to your company, a contentment in our closeness.
Sliding under the mighty jaw of the draw and into its mouth
You show me life in a decaying metal mountain,
Ornamented with lilacs, a painted steel tree
With branches as delicate as its trunk is strong.
My breath returns for an inhale only to be twice seized
By the scorched tongue of the bridge beneath me,
Willing my wobbling legs not to give up now
Sweaty hands clench my mother’s vintage leather at my hip.
My guarded gaze glides cautiously Up,
Up into the throat of a tipped bridge,
Up to the soaring swing where those who seek adrenaline in asylum go to release amid the clouds.
For a moment I am brave enough to close my eyes,
-1:08 am, 5.17., a restless mind writing.