Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Holding on to Nothing

I'm holding on,

holding on to all that's left,

holding on to air.

I was on a rope that kept getting shorter,

pulled away from me so far

it vanished.

Now I dangle, feet slipping on the glass

of the edge of a building,

nothing supporting me.

I haven't fallen yet,

so I carefully hoist myself up.

It is tentative; I cannot see my rope.

Is there even anything there?

And if there isn't, what's stopping me

from smashing on the sidewalk?

I get my answer in an instant --

there isn't anything.

I realize, as the ground approaches,

that I have no way of knowing if I'm flying or falling.

They both feel the same

up until impact.

And then I slam.