His Name Was Jeremiah

The morning air was cold,
Yet my hand was warm.
Warm when his hand was in it,
Warm when his hand wasn't,
at least physically.
But not in my mind.
In my mind it was icy.

I believed I could do it.
I believed I could save him.
The distance from danger to safety,
It didn't look so far,
but was further than I could have imagined.
And the distance down was twice as far.

He fell from my hands.
He fell, with a scream of terror.
Terror ringing through my head,
Like the pealing of bells.
They must have been announcing failure.

A sickening thud.
His body hits the ground.
His boot, which he clung to so dearly, close behind.
Scuffed brown leather smacks the concrete.
The laces, like his arms, are spread like eagle's wings.

He lies down there, motionless.
My actions killed him.

It wasn't just that man that fell through my grasp to its death.
It was also my faith.
My faith in myself.
Because I can't have faith in myself now.
Not after this.

His name was Jeremiah.
I won't forget him.
Not ever.