She has a firm belief
that the universe was made
imperfect.
In it, there is simply no place for her.

Like one of Jupiter’s moons
she is superfluous.
An excess, drifting in the liquid dark.

He is a thin cord on the basket
of a hot air balloon
already pulling towards the sky.

Holding his hands,
her ankles float above her head,
whilst the mud is up to his knee.

Love has no place in liberty,
in the reckless pull of the wind.
Letting go, finger by finger,
they remain linked by a twist of thumbs.

Until the inevitable end,
when a choice is made, seeming hers,
but really, his too.

The sky swallows her,
and she, it, drinking clouds and stars
until she can no longer feel her hand,
or the blood it is bleeding.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

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