They say the fear kicks in
halfway down.
The breath you didn’t think you wanted
comes clawing up your throat,
the ground becomes too real,
and life—
suddenly, violently—
feels too short to leave behind.

They say that’s when it hits you.
That bolt of regret.
That desperate gasp.
That scream your mind makes
when your body is already committed.

But what if mine never comes?

What if I’ve stood
on this ledge so long
the fall feels like flying?

What if I’ve rehearsed the silence
so often
that even the rush of air
couldn’t pull a heartbeat
from this chest?

They say halfway down
is a revelation—
but my eyes stay shut.
My fists stay unclenched.
My lungs stay quiet.

I watch that horse fall
again and again—
a warning dressed as poetry.
That moment
where everything becomes
too real,
too late.

And I wish it scared me.

But it doesn’t.

Because I don’t believe
I’d feel that panic.
I don’t believe
my hands would reach back.
I don’t believe
regret would bloom like they say.

Because I’ve already fallen—
so many times,
without ever leaving the ground.

And maybe that’s worse.
To still be standing
and already halfway gone.

To look at life
through the lens of a last moment
and feel
nothing.

Because if there’s a view
from halfway down,
I’ve been staring at it for years—
and it never blinked.
And neither did I—