On the precipice of something.
Legs dangling on a wet dock
washing wishes off my feet.
Trees don't heal like human beings,
they callus over the wound but continue
to rot inside.
My insides withering, lungs wheezing from smoking the blues.
Maybe I'll never get over it, but at least I'll make the impression.
Feeling less like a human and more like a tree when it comes to mending.