Fingers trace the leather—
grooved lines catch the skin,
soft rotations spiral in secret.
The air folds around each spin,
cradles it.
Release,
and the ball remembers the shape of your palm,
how it lingered,
how you almost held on.
It floats away,
quiet as breath,
only to return—
a steady, intimate gravity.
It knows you.
And in that knowing,
you rise,
smooth,
inevitable.
