Treehouse

Dominique Johnson

It was a Tuesday.
That was the day you didn’t come back and I came after you.
We were the space between wrong and right.
We were the shade of grey in the sunset seen by few eyes.
Being melted into a single entity put you and I on one rhythmic accord.
Of course you used to fight it and scream and complain that you’d call the cops, but I knew all along what your heart was saying.
We were the blade that cut too deep.
We were the deadliest piranhas.
Fear was just a mere unfeasible condition. Yet, in that same microcosm, we were just a small candy.
An efficiently power punching proportion treat that was trimmed too soon and treated with disregard.
That cliff opened its arms for us. Or rather for you; ladies first of course.
This cliff is where we lived to come as kids.
This is where you died.
Remember that?
Do you remember that day we first realized we were meant to be?
I don’t remember it either.
It was before New York, before Cairo, and before Cape Town.
You said we’d die together.
I remember seeing a TV special about how to roll out of a moving vehicle.
It worked just like they said it would.
The way that car went flying over the cliff’s edge with you in it just took my breath away.

 You should have seen yourself.

Dominique Johnson is from Shreveport, Louisiana.  He is a Louisiana State University graduate and he loves writing about life as an experience.  He tries to think of every success, failure, or experience that he has as an opportunity to create a story or learn something new.  He aspires to inspire through his writing.

See more of Dominique’s poetry, and his list of 5 things, throughout the week.