I have forgotten how to sit still.
There is a tremor in my hands,
but it is not a shaking—
it is the way light ripples on water
when you dip your fingers in,
the way a thought spreads
before it knows what it is.
The floor does not end where it should.
It stretches, sighs,
breathes under me like an animal
half-asleep, waiting,
like it knows something I do not.
My skin hums in colours I cannot name,
and the room is soft,
melting at the edges,
the walls leaning in like old friends
who have forgotten why they came
but stay anyway.
I want to say something,
but words feel slow,
like trying to pull string from honey.
I laugh instead—
at what?
At nothing.
At everything.
At the way the world folds in on itself
like a petal curling closed,
or a wave eating the shore,
or a memory slipping backward
into the place where time does not chase it.
I think—I think I love everyone.
I think I might be floating.
I think I might be spilling
right out of myself,
and maybe that is fine,
maybe that is the point,
maybe I was never meant to stay inside my skin
for too long.
