Precipice

When you’ve spent so much time so close to the edge that you forget how close you are, that the precipice almost feels normal, it really takes nothing to push you over.  A gust of wind, the wrong step, a moment of distraction.  But you don’t fall, you clutch to the outcroppings, your fingers bleeding with the effort.  And nobody helps you because they think you are rock climbing.  And you’ve forgotten how to cry out for help.  Or you curse your fingers for not being strong enough to pull you to relative safety.  Or you blame yourself for being so close to the edge.  But you don’t let go.  As effortless as that would be.  Something keeps you clinging.  A hint of a face, an aroma, a melody, a future. . .