The Top Click

The carpet pattern repeats,

dot, dash, dot, before the next stair.

My breath, a held thing,

tight in the throat.

Two rings. Then silence.

Just the clock, downstairs,

a dry, brittle

click-click-click.

That rise in the stomach,

a slow, certain pull.

Not falling yet, but perched.

Knowing the angle.

Knowing the sickening plunge.

And waiting.