The Edge

My feet reach the edge,

where windowsill meets empty air. 

Death is watchful, inevitability at my side.

This is the closest I come

to her presence—on the brink.

Perhaps if her gaze wavered—

just for a breath.

The thought has crossed my mind

she’d descend with me

if I stepped off, knowing my resolve,

when doubt is no longer an option.

Below appears deceptively close,

an illusion of safety.

Is my hesitation born from

its seeming triviality?

Standing here, the distance

loses its weight.

The notion calls to me,

ensnares every stray,

scattered thought without remorse.

The gust shrieks past at breakneck speed;

it leaves no room for retreat.

Stubbornly, there's only one direction

engraved in my mind—downward.

Returning home tonight would mean

abandoning even less than

what brought me here—life and an end.

I am still afraid;

yet, the wind has its own rhythm now.

Somewhere between breaths and shadows,

there’s movement—

strands of hair twisting together 

with no intention of forming

 something tangible to grasp.

The current sweeps them up,

carrying murmured doubts that vanish,

until nothing but the empty space remains.