I wanted to write a poem about leaving,

the feeling of dragging feet

and twisting stomach fighting up your throat

as you walk towards your car.

 

I wanted to write a poem about missing,

about the last hug you give a friend

and realizing just how much they care

in the last words they'll say to you for months.

 

I wanted to write a poem filled with melancholy,

about how I never kissed her

or about the people I'd just barely started getting close to,

but there wasn't enough time.

 

But my mind won't dwell on these things,

perhaps it's too afraid of getting lost in the tangles

of sheets I sleep in alone,

dreaming of people, places, and memories.

 

Instead of lingering on the goodbyes,

in my dreams I am flying.

I swing high above the ground

away from safety, away from fear,

heart in throat, wind in my ears,

and when I fall, I am caught by ropes and net.

 

I wanted to write a poem about what I left behind,

but my words want to leap.

I stand on the precipice, ready to jump,

as I ended my last day, with a daring leap

arms outstretched to be caught.