Soft Collapse

Not every falling is catastrophic.

Some are gentle, incremental —

a slow leaning toward the earth

the body knows before the mind does.

I have been collapsing softly

for a while now.

Brick by brick returning

to something more essential.

The walls I built were polished.

People admired them.

I admired them.

But walls don't breathe.

Beneath the careful structure

there was always this:

the warm rubble of a self

I hadn't learned to live in yet.

So let it fall, soft and slow.

Let the dust settle.

Let the neighbors think what they will.

What's left when the building comes down

is just the ground.

And the ground

has always been enough to start from.