Empty Swing Set

The swing set creaks, a rusty song,
in the wind that whispers my name,
or maybe it's just the wind.
It doesn't know my name anymore.

Remember the days, scraped knees and sun,
when flying high was all that mattered?
Each pump a victory, a step closer
to touching the clouds, painting the sky
with childish laughter and boundless dreams.

Now, the paint is chipped, the chains are cold,
and my feet drag on the ground.
I push gently, barely leaving the earth,
a ghost in my own backyard.
The laughter echoes, but it's not mine.

Moments, like fireflies, blink on and off.
I see her, pushing me higher, her smile
a beacon in the summer haze.
Dad, catching me at the bottom,
a safe landing in his strong arms.

They're gone now, or at least, not here.
Just the creaking swing set and the wind,
a constant reminder of what was.

I try to recapture the feeling,
the weightless joy of abandoning myself
to the rhythm, the freedom.
But it's different now. I'm different.
The world feels heavier, the ground harder.

The metal bites into my skin,
a familiar discomfort that used to fade
with the adrenaline rush of speed.
Now, it just reminds me of the years
that have passed, the lines on my hands,
the gray in my hair.

The swing still moves, a slow, deliberate arc,
a pendulum marking the passage of time.
Each sway a breath, a memory,
a silent conversation with the past.

I close my eyes, trying to feel the sun
on my face, the wind in my hair,
the unburdened heart of a child.
But the sun feels weaker, the wind colder,
and my heart…my heart is full of echoes.

Maybe some things are meant to be left behind.
Treasure boxes filled with faded photographs,
stuffed animals with missing eyes,
and swing sets that only creak in the wind.

The ache is a quiet one, a dull throb
that settles in my bones.
A reminder that growing up means saying goodbye,
not just to childhood, but to a part of yourself
you can never truly get back.

I step off the swing, letting it sway
to a stop. The silence is deafening.
The wind whispers again, a question,
or maybe just a sigh.

I walk back to the house, leaving the empty
swing set behind, bathed in the fading light.
Another day done. Another memory fading.
Another step further from the girl
who believed she could fly.
Only the swing set knows. And the wind.