The Mountain

Ending, now: Turning around into sleeping, falling behind into dreaming, dropping alone into recovery. The ascent was most difficult, quite so, but we did not stop and I knew what I was about, even if you were scrabbling and moaning and wondering about the point. We reached the summit, collapsing into rock and vapour, feeling nothing but air and moisture, burning within the possibility. But, fuck, we were tired and I believed that you were actually dying, slipping across into torpor, sliding away to cessation because you did not understand. So we moved on, downwards, so quickly that now I do not believe we were ever there. But then I tumble into my mind, see the image of straining and fighting to do it, see you pale and living, flushed and dying, and mostly I remember that we did not speak.