Proximal

I keep falling, falling and falling

Over you.

On the same dead tree roots,

How come I haven’t learned,

To pick my feet up, while I walk away from you?

No matter how far I’ve gone still, you show up somewhere new.

Red string wound around my neck,

Why am I so easy to forget,

So quickly to extend, my hand out to a man made of fire and sand?

When we both know I am water.

All of this pain was preventable, you know?

I fear my new shape, is no longer gentle.

A thick layer takes place of where my skin once lived, like the weathered bark of a sycamore tree,

I have no more to give.

I didn’t really want this anyways, I say to myself

But it hurts the same as it did,

Like the first time; Like it happened yesterday

And maybe it did, proximally.

Falling can feel like floating, until you hit the ground.

I thought this time it would be different, because I hadn’t searched for you but had been found.

It didn’t feel safe, I didn’t feel ready,

So I searched for roots, and even dug them up

In order to quicken the inevitable last time, we both felt coming.

Self sabotaging at it’s finest, maybe this time I’ve got you beat.

It does not make falling any easier, knowing that I’ll land

And get back on my feet.

But I really did dream of more, between you and me.