eight miles high in poetry

you’re falling
you’re falling now
you can’t shake the feeling
of the wind in your eyes
you’re falling

there’s a silver line
almost invisibly fine
trailing out your heart
that’s your rip-cord
are you ready to pull it?

did you pack a chute
did someone remember
to pack it for you?
did you build up the karma
to weave coincidence
into synchronicity
a fabric of luck and love
enough to break your fall?

or are you as good as dead?

that’s the funny thing about falling
at a certain point
it doesn’t feel like you’re falling at all
it feels like the earth
is rising up to meet you
at terminal velocity

you’re falling
and there’s a ripcord at your heart
and you have to decide
which is worse
dying
or maybe finding out
the chute’s empty

I’m so goddamned afraid
the chute’s empty