My friend, Jake, writes some beautiful stuff.

stories from a friend

without a parachute
is brilliant
until one hits the ground.
no, its never the fall,
but the impact, that
breaks, splinters, obliterates
the fragile bones
we call a frame.

only seconds earlier,
when one is falling
through the air,
it feels as flying might,
and the body light,
lighter than ever before.
there is an awe
approaching the ground:
there’s my home,
the world on which
i awoke.

and then, the
dirt and grass and ground
on that home
become far too close
for comfort,
and there you are,
flying far too fast
for comfort.

there is a
brutal crunch,
and laying there,
in your crumpled state,
your mind takes over,
because your heart has been crushed
by the impact, not the fall.
and your final neural connections,
from neurons smushed against the
broken, shattered shards of a skull,
are this,
at least for a moment:

what a waste.

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