on the ledge

up there on the fifth floor,
rubbing his hands on the worn down armrests.
rubbing, rubbing
the constant hum of the rain,
buzzing, buzzing
like a needle scratching an old record.
was he God?
was he the Devil?
did he even Believe?
wet noise and death,
opening the window.
a once wandering mind,
now mired in painful speculation.
frightening life,
turning, turning
out on the ledge.
was he only the tiny voice in his head?
tiny voice counting
five
four
tree
two
one
he died in his mind, always.