What with the moss being all smooth and wet
I probably didn’t stand a chance,
but I took it anyway
not just my footing
not to my death
but something unimaginably close.
You asked me if I still had nightmares.
I lied when I said no.
But they are slippery too,
or soft like tattooed skin.
The gentle unfolding of vision
blurring the edges of streetlamps
haunted and milky
the wispy sound of houseflies sleeping.
They taste like roots pulled too soon from their beds
like the inside of his hand that day
when he hung on to me and that rock
against the pull of gravity and the neediness of water
for just a fraction of a second
12 hours ago