If you are reading this on a screen
your face glowing cold and blue
your hand reaching out across air,
put down your device. Look around.
Notice the wind rushing at your face,
muddling and whipping your hair,
numbing your fingertips and toes.
You have been falling for so long
at terminal velocity it is typical now.
You have grown acclimatised to seconds
dropping into the nothing. You are
rushing towards that same absence.
Try to hold onto what you can
as you plunge. Grab moments;
the mutating clouds of indigo,
the emerald grass that grows and dies,
dreams that flicker above your head
like localised electrical storms.
Even here, even above the planet
in the mesosphere, there is oxygen.