Some things weigh so hard that
pushing your hands onto hard,
cracked pavement can barely lift
you more than a foot, your back
covered in ghosts who drape their
forms upon you.

Their tears run down your face,
mixing the bittersweet as pools
appear between your splayed fingers,
the sting of spectral water forcing
its way in the cuts alongside
gnawed nail and cuticle, mouth as
taut as tarpaulin held over
secrets by strained promises.

It pushes you further, your face
nearly submerged, desperate shallow
breaths with every extra soul
atop your shoulders, arms
wobble under the crushing pressure,
your eyes clenched closed,
avoiding the reflective surface
of that salted sheen before you,
all the while,
the gravity shows itself.