On the steps outside of music class
You taught me how to jump through time.
The wrought-iron handrails,
Your grip so tight—
Tiny feet stuck on those stone steps
That looked wet even in the sun.
I wish.
I still wish
I could clutch you forever—
You felt so light.
What you didn't ask for,
What I didn't know:
As you hung frozen in the air,
our arms outstretched
on either side of the looking-glass—
the squeals of fear, the rush of you.
We each climbed one step higher,
And you asked to do it again
And again.
Your reading record
Checking who has held this poem...
Part of your record in the archive.
Sign in if you want your name to stay with the record.
Your shelf
Keep this one close.
Saved on this device. Part of your shelf.
Share this poem
Send the line onward, save the story image, or pass the poem to someone who needs it.
Sign in if you want shares and story actions to carry your name in the archive record.
Delivered by Substack
If this poem stayed with you, the next one will find you.
A quieter way to stay close to the work. One poem at a time.
New poems and explorations
Delivered by Substack.
Listening room
Hear the poem in one breath.
A studio reading for the archive, voiced with care and restraint.
Studio reading
On the steps outside of music class0:00 / 0:42
Part of a living collection since September 2024.