Cleaning out my email draft box, and came across this. Something I wrote in 2018, intending to send. Three years on and yah, sounds like a fresh wound, too picked over to scar, too deep to heal:

dirty toe-nails half-chewed into talons
cling to the end of the abyss
“It’s so easy,” whispers “just one step forward.”
“She’s always going on about moving forward — here’s her chance”
Like a creaky, ancient porch swing,
I arch over the chasm measuring my depth of field
swing back, beneath the black-hole eaten sky, and
wonder where do the stars go when they blink out.
“Any slice of a breath, a sliver of a moment now,” sotto-voiced, “she will loose her balance”
“She never had any balance. A short-jerk motion; a flailing heel step on that beam”
Horizon is no more — dark against dark; no lightening flashes, no failing nova super stars, no illumination, illustration.
Cliff end, cliff ledge blurs into the vanishing point;
I extend my leg, in tai chi slow motion, foot following ankle, following thigh.
images: abyss coffee table @ Duffy, London