like a cool glass of water providing relief from the bowels of august, i can never get enough of that breeze bathing my skin so intimately unlike the callousness of your hands. throw up the sash and it’s all right there beyond me. the escape, the relief, the utter end. my father once scaled a step stool with such a haunted look in his eyes. four feet to the floor but he teetered changing that lightbulb as if standing tippytoed in the teeth of everest’s upper troposphere. i get it now. he didn’t fear the height or looking down. he regretted the lack of elevation to drop. i see your palms in my mind as your mouth drones on and on. i see the air between them filling the space my body never touched. the density of my feet snaps me back around. and the breath of the wind across my cheek, beckoning me forward, a mistress of wisp with stolen hours cradled in her arms. throw up the sash and it’s all right there beyond me. narrow precipice dividing the veil between this life and where i belong. i never saw my father change another lightbulb. much like him now, i keep my eyes hidden in the dark.
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