Falling

I'm leaving,
and she's being a real bitch about it.

Now is not the time
for fines
and bent keys
and police banging on the window
of my already beat up Hyundai Getz.

It's the push, pull,
the tide, the volatile wave, taking you higher and higher
then dumping you down
leaving your ears waterlogged
sand collecting at your crotch
that all too familiar
uncomfortable feeling.

I probably have snot
dripping out of my nose
and you're all too polite to say
anything.

But the surf's up
and I don't give a fuck
about the steep descent
I'm after the high
free wheeling
on the edge
where the water froths and foams at the mouth
mad
with the speed of wild horses
loud as thunder
as unpredictable as the tsunami
dumping oceans worth of water
on your freshly washed hair.

It's not the way you planned it
it never is
the rhythms
and rhymes
gallop at great pace
kicking dirt in your face
leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

Exhilarating.

I'm packing, now, just to spite her,
to make it seem final
zip my precious things away from her jealous stare
scrunch and fold and roll
tumble
fall
yep, always falling

and in case you were wondering
I don't need you to catch me,
just step off the edge
and I'll see you mid air
wind in my hair
for as long as current keeps us
falling
together.