An arrow
Is all it took to flabbergast me
I’m standing still
In the middle of the supermarket
By the frozen peas
With three items in my hand
And none of them matter anymore

It wasn’t sharp
Not in the way knives are
But in the way a sentence can be
When you weren’t ready
And your name was in it

There were no wings on its shaft
No warning
Just the weight of your voice
Typed and sent

A heart attack.

A friend once told me
  “Don’t lean on people, they always move and you’ll fall.”
    But what if?

What if I leaned with a knife in my ribs
  Just to keep it straight?
What if their shoulder was made of plastic,
  And I liked the noise it impregnated me with?
What if falling was softer than standing still,
  And comfort was found in bruises?
What if all I ever wanted
  Was someone to move?
  But toward me, not away?