A hundred feet off the ground,
I'm just at the edge of the cliff,
All I need is a gentle push,
A nudge would do, maybe even
A touch of your fingertips on my skin,
Galvanizing the deeply rooted body hair,
And only when I'm suspended midair
Do I realize that it's a long way down
Cutting across the sultry breeze,
Overwhelming and intimidating,
So I flap my arms against the wind,
So I breathe deeply before the vast
Ocean welcomes and immerses me
And I holdfast my respiration,
Lest the water clutches my lungs
Attempts to suffocate and drown me,
Just two feet above when I look
Around, and I find that I'm not
Falling in love alone.

My silence is not, and does not
Represent, the inadequacies of
my adeptness and my knowledge,
Nor does it undermine my capabilities
Of paraphrasing primary thoughts
In verbose, scholarly manner, no,
It does not, can never, didn't ever
Mean that I am not opinionated,
For it is upon my discretion
Whether you are worth debating with.

Flashes of red in my eyes,
Burning away images of the night
I thought I would have, and I feel
Myself suffocating, lying amongst half
A throng of people, victims, as the rest
Run around in panic, of smoke and chaos.

Stood on a scaffold,
Maniac laughter ringing in my ears
A man awaiting his executioner
With a glint of pride in his voice
Death, a trophy for his accomplishments
Something is weighing me down
The thought of seeing the light
Leave from someone's eyes, no,
My hand on the trigger I hold losely,
Thinking to myself, should I pull it?

She sat still as her eyes followed the trajectory of the smoke rising from
The inferno of her ragged
But easy going heart, reminding
Her of how he would always
Release the cigar smoke in her ears
And whisper out slowly, You and I are Exactly like this cigarette, ignited,
And together we are like this
Smoke, streaming above, and how
She'd smile at him convinced,
Never releasing until now that
He was the billowing cloud
And she, the ashtray.

Over and over again I
Lacerate my index across,
Flipping page after page
Trying to catch up to the
Part of this story where
You are, or where I think
You may be, and every time
I smear just a drib of my
Blood over the edges and leave
A trail I leave a bookmark
For when I'm reminiscing
And ruminating of the words
That could have filled the
Otherwise blank pages and given
Substance to our tacit exchanges.