The Story of the Distance Between Two Falling Objects: Backdrop for What's Really Going On in the Mind of the Writer

There is more poetry than prose

here.
I

wonder why. I sigh
and I wonder

why.

Why, when for so long I bathed page after page in phrase after phrase, paragraphs streching across the plane, do I now find myself breaking

off
words here and there
letting
them
fall vertically, like
something you watch
slipping off the edge of a building

or

a cliff?
A body, perhaps, or

a leaf.

I once wrote a single word in pencil on a papery brown leaf. And that word became more beautiful to me than any other word I've ever written or read.

One.

Word.

Only mathematicians and scientists can truly appreciate a poem for its challenging angles and meter. Measuring it's shape and depth with special tools that have names I can write but not pronounce.

What happened to the story I was telling about my love affair with poetry? What will prose say when she finds out that all long my love for her was preparing me for my love for the other? Him? Her tears will be made of the wind that pushes down power lines and trees. Leaves falling everywhere, and sparks spitting off wires in a crisp, orange glow. Have I yet, successfully, measured meaning and expressed it to you clearly in chart-- a graph, a diagram? Why do you return to me, here, you ask, within the framework of a poetic form? "You had no where else to go from falling, being too far from the building to reach out to a ledge or rail. Your body lands here," I say. Here, where I will bleed to death. There will be red on your pages now. "You are wrong about me. I would never let you die, not in the story I tell. In my story you are a hero with wings that, until just now, you didn't know you had." I am your fallen-- "No, not fallen, falling. You are my falling--" Angel. 

From one angle
it seems

from another
it is

Not many can tell the difference

anymore.

Not even the engineers with their unpronounceable tools.

What tool makes the shape of this

less

awkward?

The word: window.

Through which I watched you wonder at each word, your fingers hesitating to strike a key. You could never decide between SPACE or ENTER. 

Yes, I remember you there, hovering in the space between the sill and the pane, but even when I whispered your name, sending soft words out onto the wind, you would never

ENTER.