You see, every time I fall you leave, and I am here, bandaging new wounds, layering on salve to make the pain dispel.
You have a story for every empty space. I sit with black abysses in mason jars, overlooked, a puppeteer with the strings cut. You can’t understand the intricacy of these caves. Your legs cannot withstand the waves. So, I run away.
Leaving has always been easy. I found happy a home in the woods where we roam alone. Strength has gathered. Sight is so keen there are sometimes too many dimensions being gleaned. Another memory for the pages. More words for the prose.
I become a memory incapable of duplication; that “crazy girl” you used to know, until one day you looked up, stunned at how high she would rise.