Nothing, apocalypse

My hands drip with soapy water.
I hold my breath in.
The cloth I use stinks of memory.

I looked out a window.
A child waves and smiles at me.
Even THAT can't stop it anymore.

I sit Indian-style on a floor.
I play with a pair of my favorite fingernail clippers.
What was it about that cloth?

I bring a cup of water to my face, and stop myself.
That bridge taunts me, it's in my dreams.
I bring the cup down, without.

I pick up a picture.
That's where I remember the cloth.
I wiped her forehead with that cloth before she died.

I'm at the window again.
I'm staring through blades of grass.
I wipe my head with that cloth.

I'm at the bridge now.
The wind blows and dances my hair.
I grip the railing as though we were old friends.

Without thinking, I toss the cloth over.
Without thinking, I climb the railing.
I was meant to be here.......