I remember how,
as I was free falling,
for weeks I fell,
so many hands reached
out for me as if
to save me from falling.
I extended my own hand,
not to catch hold, but
to wave as I passed.
I knew there was nothing
anyone could do
to stop the plummeting.
There was
no sorrow in this.
I was falling. That was
the way it was.
And then one day
I was not.
I don’t remember
how it stopped. There
was no violence.
No pain. No crash.
No blood. No bruises.
No scars.
Even knowing this,
as I watch you fall,
my hands can’t
stop themselves
from reaching.