Existence can be hard.
Sometimes when we talk,
I feel a familiar tug.
A lightness - a foreboding tension.
You're a little Red balloon.
Bright and frighteningly free, yet unmistakably bound.
Straining against whatever ties you down.
Dying to be released - yearning to be held.
So I grab your string and
Beg you to stay. At least until the wind changes.
The tug again. Stronger this time.
I tie you to my wrist, just to be safe.
The string tightens, red runs down.
My toes graze the ground, my extended arm aches.
Your brightness is quiet, little Lead balloon.
Heavy with the unyielding weight of Existence.
Reaching for the sky -
Hoping peace retreated to the clouds.
But I can't let go.
Because the atmosphere is permanent.
The ticket nonrefundable.
And there must be more than this.