Drop

The Drop I am on the white bright bed’s edge hanging on for dear life, in a dream just before sunrise, where it is a ledge above 5th Avenue. Fingers gripping the seam of the sheet, while raindrops weaken my hold drops so very cold, my fingers freeze, turn blue growing numb, letting go. It is so cold Pray there is snow below us to break, or a crew to catch us before we break on the concrete below. Cold fingers lose their grip and I plummet quick to the street face down, cheeks rippling - just a drip of rain slides down my collar, it makes my edges all cold, I pull the blankets tight and sigh. T. A. Cullen