The first of thirty and the first time I've ever comitted to something I find very important.

Beneath my chest are two parachutes
On a daily basis the expand themselves,
with each breath.

Moving in a synchronized fashion, togther
they support the same body.
Never does one think of the consequence,
often embracing the heat of a cigarette
or the medically created air of an inhaler

My lungs
They make the best parachutes

Capillary kite strings,
perfect precision of movement
between the fine lines of the atmosphere

Kite strings that are often and only severed by a blunt force trauma
that, waking up feeling of getting hit by a truck
too many cigarettes between nervous conversations with a ghost

or the constant reassurance between inhalations that sometime soon,
my heart will beat again like it used too
for something that matters
instead of something that should matter

My lungs make the best parachutes
never ceasing to stop their rhythm
constantly supporting the downfalls.