There’s a grace to falling.
Like deft hands skittering across a piano, notes tumbling out hurriedly.
Yet, a grace to it.
Like walking a giddy, high wall. And falling.
Not slipping, mind you. But leaping, of your own volition.
Falling from grace.
Falling to it.
Falling anywhere. Free falling. In love. Out of it.
A wedding of opposites –
The body effortlessly passing through a condition it is predisposed to avoid.
Strands of hair that flutter, barely escaping gravity’s clutch.
Arms that float on wind currents.
Bulk that fights a g-force.
A strange crescendo.
And the landing.
Like the cymbal, shaking out every molecule of music,
finally standing still, as a spicy ssss.