I knew from the moment I stared up,
feeling the emptiness under my feet
and the depths by which I’d plunge
that you’d extend a hand of thorns.

But of course, you may turn around and vanish
or hold it over your head and let it
drop,
a worthless shimmering and shattering
of such a thing turned black in absence.

I had hoped you’d take the chance to
turn away from the darkness;
take your eyes away from the ceiling
and let your feet return to the floor.
Spend a while in the cool silence
or let the cold water rest on your shoulders,
inhale without fear,
or fall into breathlessness.
Resist my inertia.

No, I didn’t know it would be impossible.
I only knew that when you held out your hand of thorns,
that you would endure.