I suggested leaning but they chose to jump. Never once looking to see what waited for them at the bottom. Still I called in a voice of heroic fashion, though slightly chapped from the lack of judgment shown. I stood listening for an echo or anything resembling a voice from the depths, but heard only waves, crashing against the rocks lining this coast of last chances. Gulls swooped and sang midnight songs while the moon snickered in its own lunar way. I found the darkness to be threatening as I peered over the edge, seeking but a plaid shirt, a pair of jeans or a chrome button dangling from an exposed root to no avail. It had happened and poetry was the thief. Stolen in our prime, wading in shallow waters, watching ripples of time count minutes as our thoughts began to swim. It was no use, it beckoned and only one remained to answer the never ending call. So I dove head first into the phrases and verses that would spell my doom, sentenced for life, writing graphic details of those things my heart had held and my eyes had witnessed, knowing this was it, the end of my life as I knew it, lost forever in the abyss, the drowning point of creativity, poetic imprisonment and me without a swimsuit.