there is only so much a person can do
when they realize they are
falling
it is a sudden thing
the earth turning from a life source
to the very thing that will pull
the plug within a fraction of a
breath
a fraction of a moment
where the lights reminded the woman
of the home she once knew
a glimmer of the man
she left behind when it became
apparent that there was more she
ached for than those
four walls
there is barely an exhale where the change occurs.
across every fingertip
and along the
delicate hairs of her
stomach, the woman feels the shift:
everything that was once
harmonic and synchronous
falls off
kilter.
the clock’s gears have become
tangled, but this particular
combination of hands and
chipped paint
has never made an error
there is no emergency line to call.
when the woman’s toes no longer
feel the rope, but instead
the soft caress of open air,
she wishes that someone
had told her to keep a list of numbers in a
glass jar
“break when necessary”
but then she remembers
the one with caramel eyes
the memory leaking shades of crimson and
the woman cannot tell whether it is
blood from her wounds
or the person’s tears,
but it does not matter.
she had not listened.
she is stubborn like that.
as the earth stretches its
talons up to meet the woman,
she wonders if there is a life to be found
without regret
or if everyone feels
like this
when it is time
if there is always the endless
conveyor belt of
“i wish…”
“if only…”
“what if…?”
the woman’s head is
clamoring
and her final thought is that if she could
re-do her death,
she would have paid more attention
to the taste of the air as she
was falling
maybe then,
it could have been a
final thrill
but she cannot remember
what the mountains looked like
from that angle
she cannot remember
whether the birds tried to save her
she cannot remember anything at all.
