Jeffrey Farmer

Zenith

 

I sit on the edge, slumped over from the weight of my common courtesy. 

 

Shrinking as gestures of goodwill and respect — too tired for requital — reverberate against my back. 

 

And as I take the beatings, I have no choice but to stare at the floor. Its dust-covered tiles sparkle in my hindsight and I’m comforted by their familiarity.

 

A warmth unexpected from one’s emotional nadir now radiates across a defeated face. Burning through cold spells and cold shoulders from above — much easier than any reply ever could.

 

So why look up if not to be frozen in perpetual sorrow?

 

If not to face off with my demons of the alpine?

 

If not to determine which of my twisted angels are worth the frostbite of silly games, of neglect, of fiction?

 

So I release myself from the myth of the zenith — an imaginary peak of a valley heart. Merely glass promises built on credit lines of apologies and second chances.

 

I release myself from the first move and the helping hand. My olive branch nothing more than a measure of our far distance.

 

I release myself from what could’ve been, what should’ve been, and what will be — all questions outside of my newfound control. Free agents in a world no longer tinted by holograms of rainbows.

 

Without saying a single word, I release myself.

 

All as I lay by the edge, collapsed under the weight of my common courtesy.