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`
Dour faced
you stepped into a gaping precipice
leaving me with
my face moist
at the threshold
(its frame now leaning
to one side
splintered and unhinged.)
Did I tell you that my front door
never opened to the street?
Maybe I never had the need to;
you always entered through the back door,
you always crept out the window
to play in the sun.
This time was different:
Before another word could be spoken
you rushed past me
brushing my outstretched arm(s) .
Then all I could see
was your hair tumbling in the air
as your limbs flailed
while you plummeted out of my life.
`
poem
by
Frederick Kesner
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