I’ll sit on this ledge and debate if I should jump
or merely throw my book over the cliff side
with the strength of a major league pitcher.
The temperature will be just slightly too low to find comfort and the cement I lean against will only add to the wind chill.
The people will walk like ants in the distance,
always moving,
going to some unknown location.
And I will watch from my perch,
wondering if they too see me,
or have any recollection of my presence.
I will pack my bag with the book I regrettably couldn’t chuck
over the side, and will aimlessly sit with my thoughts
not given the permanency of written existence.
Instead, they will grow in my head like seeds
drowning in a surplus of watering
where I will deny them the roots to take hold.
And that is where they will stay.