On this hazy August night, the blank swath of sky refuses

to grant me any promises. I fist the air with sticky fingers the way I used to

grab the leash around your neck, praying that something, anything, will tether you

here, within the sun’s line of sight—I give it a tug. There’s nothing I can do

but recoil this time. The momentum whispers to gravity, reminds it not to let me

off the hook again. As the wind cuts through me, all knives and steel as I

fall, I can’t help but think that maybe I was wrong

to keep you here, for making you live in a world that forces us

to the ground, to be slaves to the same dirt we’re made of, and maybe

you’re right and it hurts less when we no longer have physical bodies to hold

all that pain. Maybe. Maybe I should have told you all this before you

tore the leash with your teeth, tired of being bound to a power outside of

yourself. Maybe if I’d held on a bit tighter, or maybe if you were a bit more

afraid of God, you wouldn’t be running away from me now.

I say all this because I’m still searching for you, leash in hand, waiting

for the day I can press my ear to your heart and ask: how much more suffering

can one body bear before it collapses in on itself? Dawn doesn’t answer

but lets out a soft sigh, its wet breath waking me up for another day.