“Falling” for someone is just a cliché-consumed,
Handsomely groomed expression-- until you do it.
Yet, I would not dare call it “falling in love” and give more power to it.

We start from the crowning of a tenacious mountaintop,
With fears of the downing, fears of the drop
We lock our hands, nervous, counting
3 2 1… stop!
But it is too late, and we have already hopped.

The wind whistles fiercely, as it chastises into my ear
Reminding me, I am just as fragile as it is severe,
Relentlessly, it blows into my eyes; they well up with tears.
I am paralyzed… mystified,
Without my vision, without my ability to hear.

Those who have fallen know this feeling--exhilarating, bold, daring!
To finally fall with someone so caring!
But the glaring truth is blaring into our ears with each gust,
Only one can survive the landing, the other smashes to dust.
Maybe that is why I find you so hard to trust.
It seems just, that the pace of my fall is more daunting than yours.
Because as you have mentioned, you have fallen before
So when we decide to let go-- for just a moment—you instinctively soar!
While I panic! Terrified, sinking straight to the floor.

Without you to hold me up, I fall like a boulder.
The further I go down I get colder and colder.
I look above me, over my shoulder, and I am alone.
A large piece of stone,
I race through this treacherous pit of the unknown
And I hear you groan, “be patient, be patient,”
In your soothing, passionate way
But, try as I might, I just cannot obey,
And now, I can only blame myself as I fall in disarray.
I pray, “Please God; give me something to make this fall delay!”
But the wind is too strong and my voice is too weak
For even you to hear what I am trying to say.



As the ground approaches, I feel guilt, regret.
I think we both had our hearts set on a perfect landing,
But the dot of ground is expanding.
Our arrival is demanding more than just fears, more than just feelings.
Our fate is sealing, and ten feet from the ground, I wonder,
“How hard is healing?”
Eight feet, “Can destruction be appealing?”
Five feet, “Do I tell him all I’ve been concealing?”
Two feet, my thoughts are drained out by squealing.
One foot, to breathe is stealing.
Ground—

On the ground, on the floor, I am wrecked.
All this time, I swore I would keep myself in check…
Yet, with my eyes I explore,
I inspect, the shattered pieces of the gore.
I suspect I should have protected myself more.
I dissect each crushed remnant until I am sure,
That I am whole.
Though as each shattered piece tries to connect,
Together, they do not mold,
Perfect.
That’s what I thought we were.
That’s what I thought you were.
But we will never be perfect like was foretold
Because perfection is just a desperate stretch for control
And perfection, like broken glass, like broken people, is too hard to hold.