Snap.

Billows of worn gold and cigarette smoke hasten in from the east,
your presence scurrying under the rug, rearing over the morning:
playing both the part of lion and mouse, the ghost and the man.
You fall as waves, cascading into silence.
Turning around, I begin to write.

I used to own a pair of wings, I try not to remember.
You were the urge against the white, telling me let go;
curling content into the mind games and tight-rope safety systems.
My feathered, ruffled sense of being, warping itself into branches.
Stubborn, stiff, branches.
Snap, and you're dead.
Snap. Snap. Snap.

I spent a lot of time being a sailor on the crest of forgiveness,
wandering my mind with Jesus revealed in split-second illusions.
Until the paper drew me captive, a pen in hand, a mind in the other.
I write the night into the page and the day into the night;
battling through my conscience to drown out the
Snap.

Waiting for the tension to melt, so I'll bend.
I won't break.