Life is lined up its sleeves with ambushes, concealed, waiting, lurking, stalking your every move until it can find the worst possible time to raise a hand high in the air and slap you hard across your stupid face. A power move, a reddened cheek that serves as a reminder that you’re merely life’s bitch.
What goes up, though we may believe otherwise despite better judgment, must come down. The sun does not reverse its rise in the morning when we are sleepy and the rain does not cease its freefall on days we’ve forgotten to carry an umbrella. And the reliable, unwavering hand of gravity does not let our wishful thinking continue to soar upward after it has lost its momentum.
I built my hopes high around you. A colossal skyscraper that towered such lofty heights it seemed to wobble from the avenues and sidewalks below. An architectural feat so impressive it rounded off an eighth place to world wonders.
What goes up, though I so dearly believed otherwise despite all my better judgment, must come down. High hopes will deceive you into believing that the mortal hand can construct himself upward from the Earth and into the gates of Heaven itself, latching onto the extended hand of a kneeling angel who would nurse our naivety and kiss our bruises.
There is no bridge to Heaven.
And there is no closure for unattainable dreams.
I built my hopes high around you, until the day my masterpiece came crashing down. I buried myself beneath the rubble, vowing that I would never reach for the skies again. What goes up must come down.
Down I will stay.