Dear gravity,
I never truly meant to fall, you know. Nor did I intend to, and yet here I am on the ground being held up by you yet again. 
The sky, I've almost always loved the sky— for the longest time I only wanted to adorn it with more than just stars and hazy clouds, I wanted to paint myself across so I'd be felt too, much like the wind on someone else's upturned face. 
And yet of course the sky could not love me in turn, it simply keeps on sending back rain and little else, as if to say, “My innate coldness will only kill your inner fire, I cannot help you grow. I sincerely apologize for your hurt”.
Hey gravity, are you still there? 
I'm sorry if I keep falling apart on you and you keep having to pick up the messy pieces. I know I said I didn't want to fall, nor did I intend to, but you make it so hard not to.
I suppose even then when my eyes were looking longingly at the sky, you've already had my heart tightly held in your generous hands.
