Army of Ink On A String

 

Held On A String .   

I stretch to forever with the very tips of my fingers.  Way up high to a place where everything falls away.  Just me and nothing.  Nothing and me.  Then I let go.  Fell into a place much harder than my story.  It hurt.  Not from the fall.  From landing in things I didn’t know were still there.  Now my fingers ache for the place where everything falls away.  I fight to soothe fiddling fingers still.  Lock them in lap.  Far less than the place they long for.  Much more for being held in a place I believe I have a chance to hold.

(Reposted from 2010.   About addiction maybe?)