You fall out of the sky with nothing to cover the drag like a parachute or an umbrella. You have 10 seconds of freefall. The gasp of the wind whistles in your ears. Not even gravity can believe you jumped from the 106th floor. Not even steel and concrete can believe that it was penetrated by an invasive airplane. Not even an elevator shaft could believe that it could drink liquid fire and breathe out smoke. Not even the clear sky could believe that it could give birth to 200 bodies. Not even the ground could believe that it could swallow them all.
It almost felt like flying. Your clothes were gliders. Your heart the engine but your arms –they're still arms. They can't flap so they grab at clouds thousands of feet above you. The ledges of the building are relatively close but you couldn't grab onto them even if you had been closer. Like baby birds falling out of the nest the mother bird can't even save and just like them you hoped for a miracle but the only one that came was the end of your life; the cessation of body and spirit from this suicidal world.
Ten seconds of falling doesn't change who you are. What you smell like. It doesn't change your dirty shirt or clean underwear. You still have a sore toe and the pain hasn't gone away. It's just less important. You were still human when you kissed the sidewalk. You were still like me. While you were falling, I was at home blinking my eyes open for the first time as a hardened man who grew from the boy that came to New York with the intention of seeing what more life could give.
I sunk deep into the middle of disbelief
The panic sunset;
My calloused memory;
Too dense to be surprised.
The good morning sadness
The last breath of a falling star
The turmoil of millions since
It's been six years and we're all still falling.