We caress the edge, becoming familiar
with the ins and outs of nearly falling,
of being so close, and yet, so far.
We contemplate forever, thinking of love, of that closeness.
Precious butterfly-like fragility paired with beauty and grace,
Scathed by the slimy oil of the brush of a fingertip.
We know that responsibility lies in wait,
accountability lurking with her at the edge of our view,
waiting to pounce, to punish us for eyes shielded from reality.
And we pretend, that spending just a few more hours
won’t hurt us both secretly, once we’ve parted ways,
and look back, wondering, just what happened?
In the hours in between, in those forgotten days.
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