I feel on the edge

of something.  Grown daughter jumping

into her real life, here

and gone.  We share tattoos: stick figures,

clutching hands, her design

when she did not envision a life

beyond this one.

 

She is a shadow I took solace in, her

small body curled around mine, her pudgy hand

clutching my own as we drifted

to sleep; summer mornings,

pancakes with whipped cream smiles; thick slices

of French toast, drowning in viscous maple syrup, rivers

of cinnamon butter.

 

Now she tells her lover her secrets,

mine.  He is consuming

my life, my life’s life.  We reach an uneasy truce,

a balance that will never shift

toward me.  And so I stand

on my own precipice –deciding which way

I will fall.