A coin was flipped,
It spirals through the air, flipping over itself,
Weightless, freed from grasp,
Held only by gravity and a breeze, no preference,
No push towards heads or tails, it is both, it is neither—
A moment caught between fate and chance, as if the universe held its breath.
And I, watching, am indifferent.
It could decide everything—the shape of a day, the tilt of a mood—
It could spark the match, or keep the flame nestled.
I will let it land, or maybe not; the arc hangs suspended,
Like a question the world refuses to answer.
Where does it end? Does it matter?
One could crush a blade of grass beneath a heel, or let it grow long,
Shifting the weight of emptiness between worlds—
The indifference of a footfall that decides what lives or dies.
But it deepens, does it not?
This wound of our hands, left open by the passing gesture,
Made grave by what we chose not to choose—
A silence heavier than any word.
Is it still indifference if it is honest?
If I close my eyes while the coin spins, if I leave the answer suspended,
Do I step towards complicity?
The truth is—
The truth is I am still, as still as the coin mid-air,
And even as it moves, I stay unshaken,
A mirror to its indecision, an echo of its weightless drift.
And in that stillness, I see myself,
Watching the flip, waiting, making of myself a stranger,
One step removed from both the blade of grass and the boot above it,
Letting the world slip between open fingers—
An observer to my own inaction, as if my reflection were fading.
But this is not about me.
It never was.
I offer the coin, I spin it, I'll watch it vanish—
The gleam of metal lost to the sky.
Indifference to its descent,
I become its final lesson—
One foot here, one foot nowhere,
Between heads and tails, in a place that is both,
A space where meaning falters and fades.
I am not the stranger passing by,
nor the saviour.
I am the wound, deepened,
by the balm of my indifference,
my failure to bleed,
my failure to feel
Knowing the world is on fire.
Knowing my feet are bare.
The coin never lands,
It hovers, just out of reach,
Spinning like a promise unfulfilled,
And maybe that was the point,
To show how I, too, let everything fall—
Except for that simple, silent turning away,
A choice made by choosing nothing at all.
As the fire spreads,
I am left watching, knowing my place in the ash.
