Scratching at the walls.

Clawing at the sky.

Reaching for some invisible rope

taunting me,

dangling overhead.

Looking for a handle,

a foothold,

anything to keep me steady.

Anything to keep me.

 

Because I’m losing grip,

slipping down,

stumbling backwards.

There’s not enough chalk on my palms,

not enough grip left on my handlebars.

 

I’m losing my touch.

I’m losing touch.

I’m losing.

I’m lost.