You didn’t have to walk off that cliff 
and fall down into that canyon where voices don’t reach
and arms can’t stretch far enough to retrieve you.

I’ve tied a rope around this little tree here at the edge
and I’ve dangled my body as far down as it can go,
shouting over and over again
into the deep, dark belly of that canyon,
until my voice becomes raw.

I don’t think you can hear me.


I let my tears fall like a southern summer rain storm,
soft and cool and welcoming,
soaking everything in their path
and clearing away all the dirt
you fear is stuck to you

You don’t know
that you are still just as pure 
as the snow that falls on that tiny Maine island
you drove to 
just to eat those crab rolls 
that one time.

And I’ll be here tied to this tree
reaching for you.
Waiting to feel your fingertips
 graze the tips of mine.

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