I am climbing without you.
You and I are
climbing without me.
I am something else now.
A sharpness against your flesh.
Even memories of my flesh
are sharpness.
Pain is the memory and my skin,
warm,
is sharpness also.
It is darkness and cold, but warm
and you are cold.
I wish I still had that pain,
even that cold warmth of your skin,
the pain of your breath,
the bruises of failed attempts
to reach the end.
But now we are at the end
and the end is not here.
it is there.
The end is somewhere,
there in the darkness.
It is more pain,
bruises, and the cold,
solid warmth of our skin
climbing together
til only one of us
makes it to the top.
