The Initial Push

I broke your heart on a playground
We climbed up the metal staircase
And we crossed the metal bridge
And we sat on the metal seats

I looked at you and you at me, waiting
I took a deep breath, expecting on the exhalation
That the puff would unfold my tongue
And the words would slide out
As if my conscious were the big brother
At the top of the slide who tried to be
Encouraging instead of forceful
Because the scariest part of sliding
Is right before you go down

Half of your mouth fell to the side
And your gleaming eyes widened
Like the little boy who wanted to say “I’m not ready”
And honestly, I wasn’t ready for the push, either
But it wasn’t fair for me to leave you afraid

My lungs felt like the mylar balloon, detached from its string
In the corner of the high ceiling
When I was a kid, I wondered
When it would finally come down
I watched for months as it slowly deflated
But to me it looked like it would hang there
Over my head forever
And it wouldn’t be until I threw
A tack or a pen or something equally as sharp
That it would come crashing down
No longer graceful in its determination to stay afloat
But rather long over due in its demise.