Potential

You know that moment?  That sweet hanging precipice, the sharp edge our words can live on until someone tips their hand, pushes those final sealing words, toppling to the ground; 


a blood sacrifice, pretending we didn’t prick our tongues, prayed to the gods, to make it not so?


And all that potential, clatters echoing into the realm of Neverwhere? 


So few moments exist like that as you age, as you swing doors open and the pressure change closes the rest; It’s a pitiful heart that swelled and felt, in a short time, all those possibilities, all that LIFE, punctured like a bright balloon darkening as it recedes.

Sometimes, I can’t tell if what we are mourning is what we didn’t get to see, or are we mourning what we won?

Anything for a prize. Even if it’s just a chocolate coin that later melts in our pocket. Anything for a taste of what that once was or will never be; sticky, messy, sweet.

Sweet. 

Sweet? 

That word is only allowed as bitters to this drink. I was handed a cup, preciously full and I drank too fast, too eagerly, stubborn in my persistence to gather those shards I could still see. 

My balloon heart fills and I take it, not knowing when it’ll spill again, if it ever will. But as it fills, it lightens, and the heaviness slips under those closed doors.