The Sound of Falling

I’ve fallen from the sky before,

a practiced dive, a planned descent.

The wind would sing, the clouds would roar,

but heartbreak taught me what it meant.

No parachute for love undone,

no harness for a soul betrayed.

Just silence when the fall was done,

and echoes where your voice once stayed.

The sky above—an endless, blinding blue

The ground below—rising fast, too soon

No wings, no guide, no voice to pull me through

The silence breaks—then the cord snaps into tune.

Skydiving felt like letting go—

a thrill, a rush, a breathless flight.

But losing you was bungee’s blow:

A snap, a scream, then a sudden fright.

I dropped through grief like canyon air,

the tether tight, the world too near.

The wind was not a balm, but bare—

it stripped me down to rawest fear.

But healing came in quiet ways:

a whisper in the morning light,

a song I hadn’t heard in days,

a dream that didn’t end in flight.

I learned to fall and rise again,

to trust the cord, to trust the sky.

Some wounds don’t ask you if or when—

they teach you how to say goodbye.