ballooning

she didn't love him.
he taught her to carry
the sun in her eyes,
even when the light
didn't stream down
like lemon tea, dust motes
swirling like that time
the baby spiders hatched
in the barn and sailed
out on fine, invisible threads
caught on gossamer drafts,
and she was mesmerized
and terrified
all at once.
love is like that.
he taught her to move
in the moonlight,
flowing like dark water
between the shadows,
breathless and beguiled
by the forbidden,
biting her tongue but failing,
like that time between
the library shelves
when she spoke of falling
and flying
and meant to say
there was no difference
but there is.
we all know that.
and it seemed so simple
to lean closer
to the edge
and let go, with
only the wind
to whisper warning,
like that time on the rocks
by the creek bed, when
she jumped
because he promised
to catch her, and
the gash on her leg turned
the water red as a balloon.
he left many scars.
but that one’s her favorite,
because in all the time
since then, she’s searched
the hollow spaces
once filled by him,
sorting truth from lies,
and it has made her
smaller,
but that one
that one mark reminds her
that once, she wasn't afraid
of falling.