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.
Falling down.

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.
Sharp. Ultimate.

Like the cymbal, shaking out every molecule of music,
finally standing still, as a spicy ssss.

3 thoughts on “Forty”

  1. almost makes me wanna jump off somethin. :Pbut I’m pretty sure my personal (final) reverberation would be less like a cymbal and have a more splaattttt like quality.on a more serious note, I’ve always associated falling with chaos/the crumbling down of order/an uncontrollable rush of events to an obvious but undesirable end, so your view seems strange.

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