It’s two in the morning
and I am wishing landlines were more literal.
I could pull you across the distance that spans between us
and the shocked silence wouldn’t need to stretch so far.

You could have died.
He could have died.
But you’re still here and Damocles’s sword
swings like a pendulum

and that’s all that’s left to show for the fight.
That, and the shattered glass across asphalt
and the split second you couldn’t tell which grey
was sky.

Your knees are bruised, but they’ve been so before.
Old wounds make way for new ones.
Damocles is a myth.
You are a legend.