Falling

Teasing flame to glass, spinning
the stem between dirty tips of fingers.
Selfish again, to those with expectations.

Barely above the skin, as cold bones
etch their structure through the surface.

Alone in preference. Exhausted by
stepping on hearts
stepping through hearts.

Yesterday, I saw my reflection in a glass bowl, the distortion studied me.

Today, I saw a reflection in the mirror, a figure with hollow eyes. Who is this?
Fear briefly appeared.

Without permission, the wind bullied its way through a crack in the window.

The intrusion carelessly blew a post-it note to the floor. Have a nice day! A sweet yet bitter
reminder of someone I once cared about. I let it
where it settled, understanding it would be too heavy to lift.

A photo of my father and I posing with a couple Chinook salmon, remained
magneted to the face of the refrigerator.  My eyes burned in sadness
in shame.

The pain was aggressive. I did not want to e attached to any of it.

I retreated to a closet that did not quite hang right.  The rollers off the rail;
everything was mocking me.

I fetaled in the corner of my filth and under flame, spun the glass again. Burdens
hung in an exhaled cloud just long enough to conceive them.

Contemplation held me slenderly as I realized the deep recess I was in. I was still falling. I did not
brace for impact.

Wanting to be altered, nevertheless, or no amount of substance would
separate me from my anguish.  I am meeting myself in the
dark.

In a canyon, even a falling rock has a voice echoing its tragedy.

                 Tristan,  Fall 2019