If only I could reach
a little farther,
then maybe I could reach
the bottle of water just beyond the ledge.
But I’m not tall and I don't have long arms,
not like Adam,
who’s too clumsy for the height
that makes him a menace
to those around him,
those who have to look out for him
and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.
But I don’t mind that he’s taller and clumsier,
not really - it just means I have to watch him
closer
to make sure he’s okay.
There’s no one else who will,
not when neither of us have parents
to speak of or a home
outside of each other, and I know
that he does it for me.
Though I’m also sure that,
before he left this morning,
he’s the one
who put my water
just out of reach.
If only I could reach a little farther,
then I wouldn’t have to get up
off the small sheltered ledge
where our beds are
and see the city filth beneath my feet.
Up on our rooftop - Adam’s
and mine, we’d staked our territory
long ago - I try
to focus on the horizon,
the beyond
beyond what’s here,
because here isn’t for us.
We’re still just kids,
but everyone’s judged us like we
have no more life to live.
There must be something else,
something beyond this,
that's just out of reach right now.
That’s what I’m thinking
when I crawl to the edge
on the wet concrete,
soaking the only pair of jeans I own
where my knees touch the ground.
That’s what I’m thinking when I
feel the plastic cap of the bottle under my fingertips
before the bottle lurches
off the ledge.
But that’s not
what I’m thinking
when I look down
and see the bottle hurtle towards Adam, who’s
distracted and
slips
on the ladder, fifth rung from the top,
losing his balance.
That’s not what I’m thinking
when he crashes to the pavement
four stories below and I
scream because he landed so wrong and
I know what that means and I can’t think but I can't stop thinking either because I was right there
my hand was right there
reaching for the bottle.
What I’m thinking
as I watch
is how if only
I could reach
a little farther.
a little farther,
then maybe I could reach
the bottle of water just beyond the ledge.
But I’m not tall and I don't have long arms,
not like Adam,
who’s too clumsy for the height
that makes him a menace
to those around him,
those who have to look out for him
and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.
But I don’t mind that he’s taller and clumsier,
not really - it just means I have to watch him
closer
to make sure he’s okay.
There’s no one else who will,
not when neither of us have parents
to speak of or a home
outside of each other, and I know
that he does it for me.
Though I’m also sure that,
before he left this morning,
he’s the one
who put my water
just out of reach.
If only I could reach a little farther,
then I wouldn’t have to get up
off the small sheltered ledge
where our beds are
and see the city filth beneath my feet.
Up on our rooftop - Adam’s
and mine, we’d staked our territory
long ago - I try
to focus on the horizon,
the beyond
beyond what’s here,
because here isn’t for us.
We’re still just kids,
but everyone’s judged us like we
have no more life to live.
There must be something else,
something beyond this,
that's just out of reach right now.
That’s what I’m thinking
when I crawl to the edge
on the wet concrete,
soaking the only pair of jeans I own
where my knees touch the ground.
That’s what I’m thinking when I
feel the plastic cap of the bottle under my fingertips
before the bottle lurches
off the ledge.
But that’s not
what I’m thinking
when I look down
and see the bottle hurtle towards Adam, who’s
distracted and
slips
on the ladder, fifth rung from the top,
losing his balance.
That’s not what I’m thinking
when he crashes to the pavement
four stories below and I
scream because he landed so wrong and
I know what that means and I can’t think but I can't stop thinking either because I was right there
my hand was right there
reaching for the bottle.
What I’m thinking
as I watch
is how if only
I could reach
a little farther.
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