It’s not the impact I fear, as I’ve heard that by time you hit the ground,
you’ve already gone mad or fainted—a defense mechanism to avert
the comprehension of consuming, literally bone-powdering pain
too intense for a delicate conscious brain and heart.
Where was this fail-safe before? Why didn’t it kick in three years ago,
that night at the gallery, as you explained how you crafted every piece,
the way you selected the color of each stroke, the bristle on every brush’s tip,
then somehow chose to include me in your exhibition.
I was no Titian nymph, much less a Muse. Maybe Rubenesque, even impressionistic, receptive
to your every whim. I became a canvas—you preferred yours blank—
so I surrendered to your porous eyes. Why didn’t my knees buckle and blood freeze then,
mid-flight, to spare me the searing, soaring stab of pain?
It’s not the crash, but my fear that in those 3.5 seconds from rooftop to sidewalk,
I’ll fall in love another thousand times, but this time, with the plunge.