Salt in Your Eye

Everytime I try to fall from the face of the earth,
gravity throws an arm out like a protective mother
who has without a single warning
heart-attack-slammed her brakes on.

Gravity, always very polite when she introduces herself,
tells me her name is Reality, weaves veracious fingers
through my hair, pulls hard to see
her impetuous, bitching disappointment.

Annoyed of all her frequent visits,
I set my "fuck you" stare on her
ask if she's ever walked away from anyone,
just left the world up to them.

She laughs, kisses my cheek,
and suddenly
we're huddled in a dark theater,
a persistent invitation sits at the edge of my heart.

Teeth chatter heavy, cold, the overwhelming screen looms.
Fear loosens my adhesive will, and the lights dim.
She hands me a box of kleenex, says
"It's ok to spill some of that salt in your eye, honey,"

and I spend the next few hours watching myself
beg her over and over not to leave me.