You are crying,
as the wind watches you weigh up your options.
Waiting on a roof for a reason,
that may never come,
and the wind,
is lazy and unmoved by your last goodbye,
to a world she only observes.
You write an essay,
with your troubled tongue,
telling the air around you,
all the things you regret,
as the rushing wind caresses your hair,
and I am on the ground,
jealous, jubilant and jailed,
by the worry that I’m too late,
abseiling down into the core of the earth,
powered by the need to be as close as the wind,
in my own way.
She has no prayer or advice,
no real preference,
for whether you jump into tomorrow,
or jump into yesterday,
for she will continue to pass,
wherever you go,
(or do not go),
and nothing can be done,
but I will still try,
even if the world and all it’s wonders won’t.
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