We’re on a roof taking in the view. You

throw something over the edge. You don’t know

how to count into a million pieces. You don’t

know that gone is defined by what you still have

to live with. You want to see where it went

and it’s my job to tell you these things

so I show you, my shoulders and hands tightening

as I bend us into that irrevocable space.

You reach your hands out, straining

against my hold. In this moment I’m capable

of anything, which reminds me of yesterday,

the cup of tea I held steady as I tiptoed

toward my chair. The few drops escaping anyway

onto my skin. My hand opening. I remember

the cup breaking, how it woke you

from your nap, how my quiet was gone

even before it began. And now we’re here,

both looking down, and I’m that capable of anything.