She

May 04, 2024By F.S.F
F.S.F

At the nadir of the tether, I spin,

her finger nudges—imperceptible, yet immense.

Compelled, I ascend the string,

nearly touching—yet not—the surface of her skin.


With a sudden dip of her finger,

I spiral downward, to the start.

Her motions guide me, a dance of ascent and descent,

until, with scissors poised, she contemplates the end.


The ambiguity hangs heavier than the cut:

Snip.

I collide with the ground, still spinning,

lost in the echoes of what this might mean.