that in the end, you and I reduce to a problem of motion,
or a child's idle riddle?
Perhaps it is due to all the falls
and the late nights,
but I thought we were more than that.
It's so hard to bear that we should end this way,
with this impossible combination:
the weightless feel of new love in June in the Botanical Gardens,
and the elevator-drop nausea of irremediable fact.
I never saw this coming.
Should I have?
A new CGI-fed generation finds us less thrilling--
special effects having replaced
flesh and bone,
balance and muscle memory.
One magic obliterates another.
My faith, though, is the old familiar kind,
rooted in our hands holding each others' bodies, suspended,
hearts lit like floodlamps on a string.
Our landscape has always been nothing more than
a small platform, a swing, and thin air.
In the same way that I believed the next dot on the map would be there--
that the tents would go up and the crowds would come--
I never questioned that you would always catch me.
It was me who insisted that we not use a net during performances,
so entire was my confidence in your touch and your outstretched arms.
I was wrong,
and it is the surprise of it that is worse than the concrete rushing close
with its merciless kiss.
I wonder why you gave me up to the air and let me fall?
Ah well. I shall have the rest of my life to ponder that.