The Swing Ride

They strap you in

with a buckle that’s never quite tight enough,

tell you to hold on,

but you don’t — not really.

You’re already letting go.

It starts slow.

Metal creaks like an old song.

The kind your mother used to hum

when she thought you were asleep.

Then you lift —

barely at first,

circling the ground like you’re still part of it.

But soon, it tilts.

The air gets colder.

Laughter turns distant.

Up here,

everything softens at the edges.

The parking lot, the popcorn stands,

the people waving from below —

they all blur

like things you once loved

but no longer remember why.

It’s beautiful,

and lonely in the same breath.

You think of the things you didn’t say.

You think of who might be looking up.

And for a moment —

a small, suspended moment —

you believe

you’ll stay in the sky forever.

But it ends.

Always.

You circle back,

a little slower now,

shoes reaching for the earth again.

When your feet touch the ground,

nothing looks quite how you left it.

You smile like you’re okay.

You walk like the air didn’t change you.

But it did.