the hanging

The darkness is a slow fade. Evening seeps in through the windows so subtly that I don't even notice the light's absence until my ink begins to blend into the air above it and my head subconsciously falls closer to the page. As far as I'm concerned, we'll leave the lights off. There's a calm in the room, like sleep -- that hidden gas that slows our breathing and pushes down on our eyelids. Outside, the bass of a passing truck reverberates and echoes off my heart, making it all tingly. It tickles. There is a plant that hangs above the kitchen sink. Does it feel unnatural, suspended above the ground in such a manner? Does it feel different? It can see all the other plants outside tied firmly to the earth. "Jump," I whisper. The aftermath would be a mess to clean up, but I care more deeply about its liberation. "Jump!"