She
May 04, 2024·By 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.