The Grace of Falling

"I've been dead before,"
He speaks as if it is a plague to be alive.
Shouting and banging and never letting go.
I hang on his words that hold me like weights to the earth beneath my feet.
Understanding the sweet bitterness of slipping.
"They always find me..."
Falling to the floor, jamming the system with the constipation of tears.
Stuck in his eyes but never surfacing.
As if he has fallen from the grace he was never granted.
"They bring me back, every time."
He is eloquent and certain.
Fixed in his quest for consistency,
Never letting help arrive.
Stubborn and intelligent, but the latter takes presidence.
"Did you see anything when you died?"
I inquire only to keep pace.
Falling behind his pain is not something to enjoy.
It is to feel as if insignificance has enveloped the darkest corners of your mind.
He thinks faster and I follow, two paces behind.
But the answer is nothing to forget.
"It was a Supernova..."